Crash by J.G. Ballard

Author:J.G. Ballard
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: For the Benefit of Mr. Kite
Published: 1973-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

12

VAUGHAN was right. Catherine’s sexual fantasies began more and more to involve him. At night, as we lay together in our bedroom, we approached Vaughan through the pantheon of our familiar partners like Vaughan himself tracking us through the lobbies of the terminal buildings.

“We must get some more hash.” Catherine looked up at the traffic lights sweeping across the windows.

“Why is Seagrave so obsessed with these film actresses? You say he wants to crash into them?”

“Vaughan put the idea into his head. He’s using Seagrave in some experiment.”

“What about the wife?”

“She’s under Vaughan’s thumb.”

“And you?”

Catherine lay with her back to me, buttocks pressed into my groin. As I moved my penis I looked past my scarred navel at the cleft between her buttocks, as immaculate as a doll’s. I held her breasts in my hands, her rib cage crushing my wristwatch into my forearm. Catherine’s passive stance was deceptive; from long practice I knew that this was the prelude to an erotic fantasy, a slow and circular inspection of some fresh sexual quarry.

“Am I under his thumb? No. But it’s difficult to know where the centre of his personality is.”

“You don’t resent him taking all those photographs? It sounds as if he’s using you.”

I began to play with Catherine’s right nipple. Not yet ready for this, she took my hand and placed it around her breast.

“Vaughan annexes people to him. There’s still a strong element of the TV personality about his whole style.”

“Poor man. These girls he picks up – some of them are just children.”

“You keep coming back to them. It isn’t sex that Vaughan is interested in, but technology.”

Catherine pressed her head into the pillow, a familiar gesture of concentration.

“Do you like Vaughan?”

I moved my fingers to her nipple again and began to erect it. Her buttocks moved on to my penis. Her voice was pitched on a low, thick note.

“In what way?” I asked.

“He fascinates you, doesn’t he?”

“There is something about him. About his obsessions.”

“His flashy car, the way he drives, his loneliness. All the women he’s fucked there. It must smell of semen.”

“It does.”

“Do you find him attractive?”

I drew my penis from her vagina and placed the head against her anus, but she pressed it back into her vulva with a quick hand.

“He’s very pale, covered with scars.”

“Would you like to fuck him, though? In that car?”

I paused, trying to delay the orgasm rushing like a tidal race up the shaft of my penis.

“No. But there is something about him, particularly as he drives.”

“It’s sex – sex and that car. Have you seen his penis?”

As I described Vaughan to her I listened to my voice rising slightly above the sounds of our bodies. I itemized the elements that constituted Vaughan’s image in my mind: his hard buttocks held within the worn jeans as he rolled himself on to one hip to leave the car; the sallow skin of his abdomen, almost exposing the triangle of his pubis as he lounged behind the steering wheel; the horn

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