David Abrahamsen, in his work The Road to Emotional Maturity, analyzes boredom in the following words:
… Boredom… the contagious disease of our times has at its root a lack of inner personal development to a higher or lower degree. Bored people may come to dislike themselves and, therefore, lose interest in the life around them, because they have no place in it. Boredom is often thinly disguised as "sophistication".
Unresolved festering boredom, whether it is admitted or not, then, is a lack or total absence of worthwhile interests.
But what is worthwhile? one may ask. If the sexual urge is one of the basic instincts that dominates man's life, isn't the gratification of that instinct worthwhile?
The answer to the preceding question might be given in the form of another question: Is the gratification of one basic instinct, to the exclusion of others, worthwhile? Would one consider an individual whose sole interest is ingestion of food – gratification, that is, of one of man's other basic instincts – as someone who is pursuing a worthwhile course? More – as someone who is normal?
That the case subject of the narrative at hand had no interests other than the gratification of his sexual appetites cannot be argued. He indicates neither interest nor concern for his institutionalized wife Marge. He mentions "two kids," and says no more of them. Incidentally, there is a great probability that he engineered the commitment of his wife, because he was "bored" with her. His entire narrative is a document of his sensuous greed, of his preoccupation with sexuality, and his refusal to divert his sexual monomania. It is a journal of boredom, and his encounter with Clarissa and, as it will be seen, with her husband Charles, might very well be the final chapter of his boredom.
It was mentioned earlier that Paul I.'s descent into masochism was "inadvertent". This deduction is necessarily drawn from the available narrative, and its implication is that the subject might have been just as easily drawn to play the role of a sadist, or of a child molester, or of a zoophile. It is not unlikely that he might eventually tire of the masochistic role, i.e., he will no longer become aroused sexually by the idea of being used, abused, degraded, and dominated. This, of course, will greatly depend on the ingenuity of Clarissa and her husband to provide new forms to their sadistic game. It is here that the danger to the subject's well-being lies. Some of the extreme cases that have come to the attention of psychoanalysts or have been recorded in police files end with the death of the sadists' victims.
One might wonder whether there is any significance to the bondage, the homosexual sodomy, and the transvestism elements that, as will be seen, enter upon the scene. Do these elements suggest a dormant homosexual personality in the case subject? On the basis of the information available, the answer is negative. They are simply variations on the theme of masochism provided by Clarissa and her husband, and as long as there are variations the chances are that the subject will participate in the game that gratifies his sexual appetite. It is the combination of the intrigue of the unknown and of the promise of copulation with Clarissa that will keep the subject coming back for more, unless he finds a more satisfying outlet for his sexual drive.
Before returning to Paul I.'s narrative, it might be of interest to comment briefly on the somewhat paradoxical psychology of his tormentors, i.e., Clarissa and her husband, Charles. It appears that there is a sadomasochistic interplay between the man and wife, although it is difficult from the information available to postulate whether they maintain such a relationship when a third partner is not present. The impression one gets is that – although both of them are "sadistic" in relationship to the subject Paul – it is Charles who wields the big whip, so to speak, and Clarissa the small one. As, for example, in the sodomy scene, as it will be seen, he has Paul copulate with his wife while he takes the subject anally. This could be interpreted as a somewhat degrading situation for Clarissa. In other cases, too, one gets the impression that whatever domineering Clarissa engages in, she does so for the benefit of her husband.
I really don't know if Charles watched while I had Clarissa or not. I was too engrossed in what I was doing. But I would venture to bet that he didn't watch, that he read his book the whole time.
After it was over, I was told, "Leave." Charles was the one who said that. I got off the bed.
"May I use the bathroom, sir?" I asked. Now that the excitement was over, my "sir" had a certain sarcastic ring.
"No," he answered without looking up. "Get out."
That made me slightly angry. What am I saying, slightly? I was pissed beyond belief. I stormed at the door. When I'd almost made it through on a very dramatic exit, Charles called after me. "Telephone Clarissa tomorrow," he said. "She will not be at her desk. Call her at ten o'clock."
I stopped long enough to look back at Clarissa. She still lay on the bed, totally still. She looked like she was dead. I couldn't even discern any movement of breathing. Then I turned and walked into the living room, where I got dressed and left. I slammed the door hard, to let them know I'd gone.
I dreamed of that scene that night. Only it wasn't the actual having of Clarissa that I dreamed about. It was the preliminaries. When I was on my knees, serving her, saying "Yes, sir," to Charles. Those were the things I dreamed of and which caused me, despite having masturbated myself to a climax that morning and having relations with Clarissa just hours earlier, to have a wet dream. Like a teenager. I hadn't had a wet dream in years.
The next morning there was nothing on my mind except Clarissa. But I was determined I was not going to call her. If she wanted to talk, let her call me. The two of them had had their fun with me the night before. Now let's get the relationship on a slightly less freaky plane.
She didn't call at ten. At ten-thirty she still hadn't called. I was frantic. And terribly nervous. Frightened, you might even say. Frightened about my disobedience. What would they do to me the next time to punish me? I spent the whole morning with an erection.
At ten-forty-five I finally picked up the phone. Clarissa answered it on the thirteenth ring. She sounded cross, but when I told her who it was, she laughed. "Oh, don't worry, darling. They always call late the morning after the first night." That stunned me. Who in the hell was "they". Obviously, I wasn't the first guy who'd spent the night on his knees, licking Clarissa until his jaws ached, obeying that automaton called Charles. I was hurt and angry, and more than a little jealous.
"Be here tonight, darling," Clarissa said through a yawn. "At eight-thirty."
I explained that I couldn't possibly come that night. I had made arrangements to visit my wife at the sanatorium. There was a pause on the other side of the line.
"Be here," Clarissa said. And then she hung up.
I fretted the whole day. I didn't get any work done. I had to visit Madge. I hadn't seen her in seven weeks. She was expecting me, and if I didn't show up she'd get all upset.
It wasn't the probability of having Clarissa that made me show up that night at eight-thirty. It was the prospect of the unknown. I had the feeling that my relationship with both Charles and Clarissa would get freakier and freakier until either I couldn't take any more, or they got bored with me. It was the possibilities, the unknown, that attracted me.
I called the sanatorium and made some inadequate excuse to Madge. I talked to her personally. My absence, I knew after I hung up, would bother her.