Reelwoman

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wish thank Diane Richards, for her undying faith in my abilities, for the thankless task of slogging through early drafts, and without whom this project may never have been completed.

I also thank Eleanor Jacobs and J. Spinoza for their consistent—much needed—praise and encouragement, David Pavlick and Joe Schick, friends and mentors, Larissa Liachova, who in many ways was the inspiration for this story, and lastly, I thank Evgenia Gvozdik, who taught me much about life and love.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The following work contains graphic sexually explicit content.

I was sole editor of this work and take full responsibility for its outcome. Please accept my apologies for any and all errors in grammar, punctuation, etc., herein. Again, they are this author’s sole responsibility. I will try to correct them in future editions.

Lastly, let me speak of the sexually graphic nature of some of the material. I have wrestled with the question of censorship, my own and that of others. My conclusion is that suppression of words and ideas lies in the province of tyrannies, and any meaningful censorship should begin in the family home. Still some may be offended, so the old admonition applies: Reader Discretion Is Advised.

Respectfully,

David Eric Miller

NYC, USA

PROLOGUE

To live means to suffer ...

— The First Noble Truth

1. WE GOT JELL-O

Miss, can you hear me? What is your name? said a young Asian nurse, her hair tucked into a blue surgical cap, nearly shouting in the prostrate woman’s ear.

The woman lay broken and bleeding on a gurney, as the young nurse and paramedics pushed her through scuffed and dinged stainless steel doors, down a yellow corridor toward the emergency bays of Saint Vincent’s Hospital in New York’s Greenwich Village. The physician assistant, a male, silently rushed over to relieve one of the paramedics and steered the gurney to an open trauma bay.

What do we know? said the nurse, moving at the head of the gurney.

A jumper, said a paramedic.

How high up was she? Does anybody know?

Not sure. Apparently jumped from the sixth floor, said the other, hit an awning.

Two uniformed cops followed behind, craning to get a better view.

What’s her name? the nurse said to the cops, pausing the gurney monetarily as she leaned over and shown a small penlight in the injured woman’s eyes, then continued on to where the team—comprised of one resident, his PA, an ER technician, and a radiologist—had already begun setting up.

When the gurney was along side a narrow bed, the team split up and three reached over the bed, grabbed hold of the bloody sheeting, while the others did so on the gurney side. We have a jumper, people, someone said, height undetermined, probably six stories.

Okay, on my count, said another, one, two, three, and they all hoisted her to the bed, as instantly the gurney was pulled away.

The medical team began its work, busily cutting away the last of her clothing and prepping fresh IV’s, this as the radiologist was already slipping a plate under her for the x-rays. They kept the bloody cervical collar in place.

Airway and heart first, then head trauma, ladies and gentlemen, the resident said, seeing that the topical bleeding was being attended to. Others began lifting and probing, visually examining her.

No ID— said one of uniforms, chewing loudly on something or other. Young and good looking, he looked to his partner and raised his brow. The other cop, a bit older, knew what his partner was thinking: that this was—even battered and bleeding—one hot looking woman.

The suits are checking now, said the older cop.

The woman drifted in and out. When she came to, she muttered incoherently, and then would slip out again. Her hair was matted and caked with drying crimson matter, her face smeared with swirls of tacky blood. Earlier a paramedic had speedily and somewhat sloppily sponged her down in the ambulance; still, remnants of hemoglobin pooled in the fissures of her face, rendering her age difficult to determine with any accuracy, though she appeared to be in her late thirties, and was, as the young cop already noticed, comely.

Regaining consciousness, she sensed the jostling. In another world, she recalled passing through her life as if watching a slideshow. Her only thought now was, pozhaluysta, ne spasi menya—Ya khochu umeret’ (please, do not save me—I want to die). Then more jostling, as somewhere off in the distance, aliens were probing and prodding her body.

Give me three hundred milligrams of Morphine Sulfate, the resident said.

A nurse found some free real estate and inserted yet another IV. Often ER docs initially withheld anesthetics to help determine where the patient hurt most; the pain that shock did not mask would be taken care of later.

The team knew their jobs and worked speedily and deftly at their individual tasks. The injured woman stirred again as she was poked and prodded. These were critical moments and called for immediate, methodical action. The sea parted when the Chief Attending Physician, donned in a long crisp lab coat and shiny stethoscope about his neck, approached, leaned over her, and began listening to her chest.

What have we got, people?

Jumper with distended abdomen and bleeding from the rectum. Likely skull fracture and probable concussion, broken humorous, possible fractured pelvis, possible broken ribs—plural—all left side, said the other doctor working above the woman’s waist. Deep clean laceration in the hairline, left temporal, from crown to jawline, about twelve centimeters ... no apparent paralysis , he added.

We got Jell-O, Steve-a-reeno, hee-hee-heee, said the younger of the two cops in near perfect Bill Cosby, his wheezy laugh and all.

Movie star good looks with baby fine blond hair and an unadorned pieced ear, he craned over their shoulders, munching a candy bar, and eyeing the injured woman’s Brazilian wax job whenever the sheets shifted. The Asian LVN shot the cop a glance. For one so immature he was already cynical, his spirit already leaning toward the corruption that was sure to envelope him later on.

She should have gone higher, the doe-ass, blondie-in-blue added.

The nurse shot the cop yet another, more venomous, glance, and with palm extended indicated, that’s enough—that they should wait outside in the corridor.

Don’t you have some forms to fill out? she said as a parting shot. She had a good mind to kick him the fuck out of her hospital, but she was aware that often such callousness was to many a coping mechanism. Then, she left them and headed back to the bay.

Thank you, Nurse, said the head physician matter-of-factly when she had returned.

You’re very welcome, Doctor.

Turning back to his patient, the chief physician shouted loudly in her ear, Can you hear me? Miss, can you hear me? All he received in return were groans.

He listened to her chest once more and palpated her abdomen, then carefully lifted her just enough to slip his hands under her lower back and very gently perform a cursory exam of her lumbar region.

More groans.

He then stepped back, saw that all serious injuries were attended to, checked the monitors, and said, People, looks like multiple injuries: skull fracture, possible fractured sacrum, massive contusion on buttock and thigh. So, get her scanned and get MRIs head to toe, and let’s find that bleeder. He turned to a nurse. Susan, get her set up in number three OR, but first run out and see if those ‘nice’ police officers have made any headway on IDing her.

Yes, Doctor, the nurse said, already running out.

Then to the others, Let’s get her cleaned up as best we can, then I want and an anesthesiologist and plastics to OR stat!

The injured woman came-to and for just a moment awareness crystalized; it was true what she recalled having heard ... that your life flashed in front of your eyes. Please, Jesus, she thought, don’t let me be alive. Then mercifully, she felt herself pulled under again.

Just a few blocks from where the victim had been taken, on a quiet tree lined residential street, in Apartment 6B of a six story building, three NYPD suits, one female, two male, silver and gold shields dangling from their necks, rifled through the woman’s things. The apartment was simple and neat, the Ikea and Pottery Barn furnishings offering little clue to her past. Detectives sniffed around her simple furnishings nevertheless, looking for possible signs of violence. One of the detectives discovered a wallet.

I have some photo ID’s, he said.... Wow!

What? said another.

She was a fuckin’ looker is what.

Can you please tell us who we’re dealing with here? the female cop said.

Name is Rachel Bollei, single, age twenty-eight.

Can one of you meatheads call that in? It was the female cop, who then saw something curious on the window sash: parallel scratches, four of them, with traces of nail polish. Same on both sides of the window. Were these signs of a struggle?

Hey Vince, did she have on nail polish, did you notice? she asked one of the others.

Not so’s I noticed. Why, you got somethin’?

She looked out and could not avoid the captivating view. Though the night was hazy, maybe two or three miles south, the lights sparkled in the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center, standing sentinel over lower Manhattan.

The marks were faint. If they were defensive, the vic certainly didn’t put up much of a struggle. Anguish could be the cause; she’d seen it before. Then she looked down and could see the janitor still bustling to clean the scene around the building’s twisted awning, pools of blood evident on the torn green canvas, noting immediately that it had stood a unit or two over and was most damaged toward curbside. She turned to scan the room once again—no windows in the apartment were remotely close to being in line with the point of impact.

Nah. It’s nothing.

She snapped a picture of it using a small camera strapped about her neck.

Anyone check the roof yet? she said.

I can go, said one of the others.

No, she said, I’ll go.

2. THE SEDUCTION OF SY

There was no view of the ocean from Oceanview. Small two family row-houses and small eight-story apartment buildings lined the street, sandwiched tightly from one corner to the other in the densely populated section of Brighton Beach Brooklyn, locally known as Little Odessa. But there were trees, and the beach was but a couple of blocks south.

It wasn’t child abuse in its most common understanding; yet clearly it was reprehensible, for she was barely thirteen when she had sex for the first time with an adult. But truth be told, her first man—he was her family’s hapless landlord—was more victim than predator. Victim to her charms that even then she wielded with a zeal borne of a hunger for the attention of older men, and for this one man in particular. She knew at that very early age the power she could wield with her nubile, rapidly developing body. It was this pure sense of power that she exuded, which tickled her young ego. Strangely, she didn’t seem to have the same affect on the boys of her own age (nor did she care), while the other girls seemed insecure when around her. It was the realization that she was wise to the ways of men earlier than her contemporaries that gave her a feeling of superiority. Perhaps they were all merely in awe.

When she was little it all came more naturally to her Popa. When his wife was alive and sanctioned his role, the playful moments with his little girl were a source of pride and unadulterated happiness. Even after a hard day’s work, the constant diaper changes, bathing, and wiping her bottom during potty training were chores he hardly minded. Never was there any thought of impropriety whatsoever, for he was a proud happily doting father.

She started dancing when she was three (while her Mama was still alive), prancing naked about the apartment with free abandon before her baths, after which Popa would swoop her up out of the tub, and place her atop the double vanity, this to avoid as much bending as his achy back would tolerate, and behind which was a wall length mirror. She loved looking at herself in the mirror. There she would stand totally transfixed by her Crystal-blue eyes, speckled with white, and nude little body reflected in the bathroom mirror. She would smile widely while striking feminine poses, arms akimbo, her knee bent just so, or pressing her nose to the glass making small circles of vapor while tilting her head. He and his wife—bursting with pride—were not allowed to cover her with the towel before this, her requisite posturing. This was their routine. Where did this young child pick this stuff up? wondered her Popa. Mama already understood. Only later did he come to realize it came from his dearly departed wife (so feminine, so proud of her own body). Yet this creature was so adorable, so trusting, so naturally uninhibited that it would melt his heart just to watch her reflection bathed in smiles…. Only later did it give him pause.

Finally, he’d wrap her in a warm fluffy towel and squeeze her tightly. And use another warm towel to pat dry her hair. She would turn from the mirror and tug on his large hairy ears, then wrap her little arms about his neck and hold him tightly, kissing his grizzled cheeks. Even after his wife had passed (shortly before their daughter had turned five), before a new dynamic formed between them, her bath times were joyous moments for him, for his child was simply adorable, precocious and vivacious. And impossible to resist.

In time, as the young girl began to mature, her father had to resist these tender moments. This too seemed a natural necessity, but something that came about regretfully. Without his wife’s knowing guidance, he was lost between his genuine emotion and proper decorum. Soon he began to become colder and withholding. He strangely resented the young child when he could no longer indulge in their joyous routines, and became incapable of showing her the affection she so deeply needed. Affection she later sought wherever she could.

It was right before she had turned twelve, when her budding breasts took on new form, that Popa became reluctant to take her shopping on the avenue or at the mall for those personal items young girls needed. He felt it reasonable enough that she could play with her mother’s clothes, which he had kept cleaned and pressed and neatly stored in his wife’s old dresser. The girl went through it often, disliking the mothball smell but tolerating it, for as with many girls, she was excited to try on her mother’s clothing, especially the intimate apparel, and sashay before the mirror in shoes and the undergarments that were still too large and out of style (though she was still too young to know). She liked the high shoes her Mama wore constantly, gracefully, how they added curves to her legs and made her feel mature and feminine like Mama—a beautiful, sensual woman—and imagined her young breasts filling the large bra. It was then that she began having these tingling sensations between her legs.

For many her age these bodily changes were ghastly, scary experiences; yet as she grew, she took delight when her flesh began to press against her mother’s Angora sweaters stretching the downy fabric. She liked these clothes more and more, the snugger they became. Then when she began dancing nearly naked in front of the closet mirror, a power possessed her. When she would sneak peaks at her father’s girlie magazines or those on store shelves and compared herself to the glossy images, her opinion favorable. In time, her dancing became more erotic and she became delighted by her growing sense of self.

And in those times when this thrill of her burgeoning maturation took on a more dormant phase, she found solace in books. She loved reading (as had Mama, who amassed quite a library, and would use them to perfect her English). Though not always understanding the words she read, she loved to journey to faraway worlds, and took pleasure in tales of pretty damsels and handsome, gallant knights. Quickly her tastes had broadened, and when she was old enough to gain access to the library, she was seldom without a tattered paperback in hand.

Despite this early easy appreciation for her development, an uneasy diffidence developed in her when her peers suddenly began to tease her. Once during phys-ed class, the girls (boys were routinely subjected as well but at different times) were lined up on the gymnasium floor in their underwear. Passing a gauntlet of doctors and nurses and gym teachers—pedophiles all, she would later conclude—the girls in turn, would have to lift their T-shirts and pull down their panties to have their development assessed. Once when she was examined, all present could hear one of the elders exclaim: Well this is a mature one, and more than one of the men at these events, to the leers from the female staff, would try desperately to conceal the bulges in their pants. Ever after, lab coats became requisite. Soon her classmates were unrelenting with their childish taunts. Nevertheless, later even the snickering in the girls’ locker room only bolstered her confidence—once she had tasted the attention of much older boys and men. Ultimately coming to understand that her peers’ jeers were based on envy.

She and her father would clash constantly during this period. He would try unsuccessfully to discipline her when she would wear skimpy clothing or would prance around the house nearly naked.

"Raisa, stoi! Put on clothes! Tee pahozha kak prostitutka!" her Popa would shout.

At times his ire was more violent. He once beat her with the palm of his hand in a moment of frustration. And the young girl got off on it, not the force of the beating, which was minimal, but the awareness of her seemingly increasing affect on the men in her world, not even excluding her own father with his exalted status.

Nevertheless, she was growing into a woman and could not fathom the depth of his anxiety. She sensed that there was something sexual about it all, not that she even knew what sex was exactly; she did, however, understand that it had to do with her body and that it was instigated by her prancing about displaying herself.

Popa found this period most discomfiting, and would not succumb to her attempted seductions—playfully innocent and uncalculated that they may have been. As time passed, bringing with it her ripening, he was often confused by his feelings toward this beautiful young woman, who was beginning to remind him of his sorely missed wife. As his walls of resentment grew even higher, so too his remoteness became the norm. Perhaps these new emotions were a governor for a long dormant lust; it was this possibility, which he suppressed, that caused him the most grief.

* * *

He was the widowed landlord of her two family house on Oceanview, a block and a half north of Brighton Beach Avenue. His name was Seymour Gluckman. He was seventy, the son of Jewish refugees who fled Europe after the war. His wife had died sixteen years ago and he found little time for women. Those who were available were mostly immigrants or illegals from Russia and the Ukraine who spoke little or no English and always seemed to have ulterior motives, when all he desired was companionship and conversation. Thus, he had only dated a handful of times since his beloved’s passing. His life was leisurely now, spending summers on the boardwalk fantasizing about the nubile, bikini clad neighborhood girls who flocked to the waterside. He was masturbating compulsively, more now than when he was a kid, or so it seemed.

She knew him as Sy, but would always address him more formally. Hi, Mr. Gluckman, she always would call out when she would empty the garbage or leave the house and saw her landlord working in the yard. She had just started wearing tight shorts favored by many of the girls then, hot-pants some were called, and had recently discovered platform wedgies, liking the way her young strong, thickening legs looked. She would bend over seductively, pretending to pick up something or other. On warm summer afternoons she’d come outside, sit on the steps, and take her time to polish her toenails. She was twelve-and-a-half.

Hi, Raia. He’d respond, trying not to stare.

But the young endowed vision of loveliness before him was exceptional for her age. She wasn’t pretty in the classic All American Cheerleader sense; rather, was possessed of a rare timeless Slavic beauty, exuding a sensuality beyond her years. And he became fixated.

As a young man, just out of the military, home from the bitter cold in Korea where he served after the war, unattached, with hormones raging, it was rare for him to encounter a truly desirable looking woman, and never felt himself worthy when he did. Never would he receive attention from them. But his tenant’s daughter was comely and inviting; that combined with, or rather because of, her own gratifying self-discovery made her irresistible. He began to feel stirrings long dormant and unrelated to his habitual masturbation. It was something more emotional. How could such a thing be a sin, was a question that seldom crossed his consciousness. He was in the throws of infatuation and happy to have such feelings.

Soon he would invite her inside, seat her at the kitchen table and allow her to do her nails. He would watch as she seductively pulled her knees to her breasts and braced her feet on against the table’s edge to paint her toenails, languishing on each delicate stroke of the applicator. Often, he would feed her lunch, eager to hear of her travails. She was fond of the attention and would occasionally steal glances as the old man self-consciously adjusted the bulge in his pants. Secretly she wanted to see it, touch it.

Memories of how things progressed were a blur. However, she did remember him introduce the viewing of pornography into their time together. They would sit on his couch with her head on his lap. She would feel his arousal. He would begin by softly tickling her arm. His hand would slip down her obliques, to her hips, then around to the small of her back, slipping his hand in her shorts to warmth between her cheeks and the moist area beyond.

Her father knew soon enough, eyeing the interaction between them, recognizing the older man’s lust. He resisted taking any action for fear stirring up trouble. He carried with him on his journey to America a fear of the authorities and possessed a timorousness—often ingrained in many immigrants—of government, in addition to his reluctance to jeopardize what were very fair living arrangements he had with Gluckman who had been a decent landlord. But eventually he had forced her to stop the relationship, taking Gluckman to court and having him charged with molestation.

Judge Juanita Johnson, a large black woman, was possessed of a wisdom and was disinclined to punish those who fell short of society’s letter of the law if their intent was without malice. Innocent would be the wrong word for it, for that was a legal term and her’s was a legal domain. Nevertheless, having taken one look at Raisa Uspenskaya, taking into account there was no vaginal penetration—as they both attested—and familiar with the ways of needy adolescents and knowing a nymphet when she saw one, she practically tossed out the case out of hand. Instead she admonished the old coot with a stern reprimand, saying:

Mr. Gluckman, you are hereby ordered to keep your weenie in your pants and maintain a reasonable amount of distance from this young lady.

Yes, your honor ... ah ... I was never—

Can it, said the judge. You have no idea how lucky you are this day. I advise you to zip it—literally and figuratively—and heed my admonition. Do I make myself clear?

Yes, your Hon ... he trailed off meekly.

As for you, Miss Uspenskaya, how old are you?

Raisa, who was standing at another table with her father, answered, Thirteen.

Well..., Judge Johnson said. Then while feigning to pick up something off the floor, said under her breath, You look pretty fuckable to me.

She thought she caught Raisa’s father blanch. She turned to her court reporter.

Did you get that, Deidra? the judge whispered.

Yep, I got it, Judge, she said, unnecessarily scrolling back through her steno notes to the judge’s last comment.

Well, you’d better strike it, she said with a smirk. Now, let us proceed, she said aloud to