Bull

March 14, 2008

The Bull and the Matador
Erin L George

He is a bull. And I, industrial-manufactured to think I am the matador, agreed to the tango long before tickets were cut. Yet I stand here, dizzy. Spinning.

Crimson kisses made of bloodied eyes make me blink. I struggle to find the spaces, the light. His horns come toward me fierce, like a lover hot on night. He fucks me. Right there. In a stadium filled with city folk, who’ve just come out to see the show. He fucks me.

I cry.

There’s no kissing or silent moans with this kind of fucking. Nipples aren’t suckled and his hands aren’t even clean. No, his fingernails hold under them the grime of city life, heartlessness, and the thrill of the show.

Strike!

I can hear them. My ears buzz with their leers. “Do it again! We told you so! She ain’t shit!”

Gracefully, graciously, he steps back. I must have been bloody enough. He retreats.

I bite. Reminding myself of his words, his truth.

That’s when he allows me to run head first through one red flag after the next. But wasn’t it I who was supposed to be holding the sheet? I cannot afford to ask such self-indulging questions now. We’ve come too far. “Fuck you, bitch! I changed my mind! I have that right!”

I back-peddle.

One, two, three steps forward. I fix my eyes tight between his horns. Sure that if I focus hard enough he will see I don’t intend to give up. I tell him so with my eyes. Forever. Baby. Yours.

It’s to no avail.

And he, with his puppy dog eyes – shaded by those horns – lures me back. I can hear him say it. Almost like a threat – “You have no other choice!”

He doesn’t want me to give myself to him freely. Instead he wants to take of me: To soak me to see how far he can go. To challenge just how much I am willing to bleed for him. Will I fill a bucket with my blood? While they just drink of it, free? Will I stand behind my words, and for him, actually die?

This ain’t no cockfight tucked in the lust of city streets. Where cash is laid on death blows. No. This ain’t no gang war. “You is mines!”

To him, love doesn’t come free. Nothing in life does. Cause that’s the way they teach it in the city streets. Watch your back or you’ll have a dick up your ass before you can blink. Why must he push this shit on me?

We do it in style. He the bull. I the matador. I dodge left, he right. He, always right. Stupid cunt!

How naieve was I, a country girl, to think myself graceful enough to keep time? To sway within his horns – set now on killing me. On drawing the very soul songs that make me dance and leap! City bulls don’t do popcorn and peanuts! City folk are mean.

They cheer.

This isn’t a church bizarre, bitch! Where children run free, unsupervised, through hallways, laughing, and picking chocolates off of artificial trees. No. This isn’t some free for all. “Let you go in peace. Amen.”

To them, it takes a village. But where is this village? And why can’t they raise their own kids?

With each stab he takes at me they shout. “Fuck the bitch again!” There’s no mistaking the fire in his eyes. And I can’t say he didn’t warn me. The red flag was there, all along. But isn’t it the matador who waves it?

Gone with tradition! Chivalry is dead! He taught me that.

I lay here, on concrete ground. Pleading up at him. “Just take care of me!”

He puffs his chest. Holding solid to his ground and the task at hand. Completely unaware that I was the only one willing to die! There’s a crowd to please, and their shouts are only becoming louder, more intense!!!

“Kill the bitch! Die!”

From my position laying supine, I can see him now. I watch, as he swaggers toward me, using his back legs to kick up sand, swept on time. There were more important things to discuss. To resolve. To find.

My chest is closing in on me and I’m not sure if I’ll be able to breathe. I close my eyes.

I remember feeding him. Taking a steel brush to his fine hairs. Cleaning his stall. Waxing his horns. I remember being sure he got big and strong. Not so we could tango. But so he could feel again. His puppy dog eyes. Back then, not blind.
I ask myself. I ask him, in my mind: Did they feed you? And how much is the almighty dollar really worth? Worth a life? Worth true love’s goodbye? How can you be afraid of me, are you really still that blind?

“Get up, fat ass! We have a show to put on!” He mocks me. Cheered on by the city folk. Darker in intention.

I did not write history!

I struggle to stand. My vision is blurred. But I can still see him. And them. I can see what drove him to be this way – to be more interested in show than in what is real – mine. But the singular version of it makes no matter now. There are words to take back and minds to change! Why bother to make me believe I was the matador? Was that all just part of the game?

Time.

Doing time.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

My heart marches forward – toes downward pointed and obedient. He has to see! It was me! It was me! I’m screaming. But the words won’t come out. Don’t strike! I feel myself rise.

Standing. On my own two feet. I watch him digging still at sand with those behind. Four. Four feet for him. Two for me. He says they owe him. That’s why. But not enough to owe us. No. That shit ain’t mine!

WHAM!!!

I feel it smack me hard! I reach to my temple, bloodied on hate’s inequities. You are not strong! You don’t know how to feed him right! You babied him and this is what you get! Bloody white chick! Country whore! How dare you be so dam naieve??? We city folk have those to please!

He lets them! Then blames me for starting this war! Defending me? “Ha! No! We covered that! Chilvary is dead! Stupid, stupid whore! My rules. My way!” And he’s not so sure he wants to take up with some country whore anyway. Doing time….

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

As days draw closer I can feel it. The pushes on his free steps. Where he’ll close right back up to send me on my way. His words saying one thing, his intentions another. Where hidden messages and sharp insults sting at my very soul. He has nothing but those that are habitual good to say about me anymore. Gone are his memories of me feeding him, nurturing him.

It’s all about her. Them. Now.

I reach up to see how deep I bleed.

One. Two. Three ….

Four.

He scratches again concrete.

“But I tried to feed them too! Please!”

My protests are met with silence. It is under his rules and authority this dance is beat. It is he who leads.

“Silly, silly ‘matador.’ How fucking naieve can you be? I say the words you long to hear, so you can fall, of false belief. You country folk aren’t shit. Stupid ghetto seed! This ain’t no cockfight! You IS mines! It is ME who leads!”

Strike!

One.
Two.
Three.

A final blow indeed. Protest? No need.

He is the bull. I am the matador. Industrial-manufactured to surrender. I get it now. Silly, Silly, naieve. The only flag I wave is white - blood tinged, killing me. I concede. He was right. I am weak. But only, to he. And he? Too blind to see.

***
The funny part? We just bought a bull. And he's not even halter-trained...