All She Needs Is Julio, The Doll
Thursday, October 15th, 2015 -- by Bacchus
The Guardian recently unearthed an odd little 1937 short story by Daphne du Maurier. Whether it’s horror (which seems to have been the intent) or just the world’s worst romance, I leave for the reader to decide. Either way, it features a woman who can’t be pried away from her beloved life-size male doll whose degree of anatomical precision is never specified. The doll has his own room, and a name: Julio. Our narrator is himself a creepy stalkerish sort:
She was dressed in brown, some sort of velvet I think, with a red scarf round her neck.
Her throat was very long and thin, like a swan’s. I remember thinking how easy it would be to tighten the scarf and strangle her. I imagined her face when dying — her lips parted, and the enquiring look in her eyes — they would show white, but she would not be afraid. All this in the space of a moment, and while she was talking to me.
There’s a lot of this sort of thing, and one good kiss, and a conversation about sadism, and then our narrator drops into stalker mode for what feels like the dozenth time:
I don’t know how I got to her flat. Seconds seemed to flash by, and I was standing outside in the street, gazing up at the windows.
I persuaded the night porter to let me in, he was half asleep and he let me pass upstairs. I listened outside her door — not a sound came from within. It might have been the entrance to a tomb.
I put my hand on the door knob, and turned it slowly. To my surprise it was not locked — Rebecca must have forgotten to turn the key after I left.
I stepped inside, everything was in darkness. “Rebecca”, I called softly, “Rebecca”. No answer.
The door of her bedroom was open, there was no one inside.
Then I went into the kitchen and the bathroom, both were empty.
Then I knew. Something gripped my heart, cold, clammy fear.
I looked towards that other room — his room — Julio’s room.
I knew that Rebecca was in there, with the doll — with Julio.
After he bursts in on her, she dumps him hard, though no harder than he surely deserved:
Her voice was cold — apart — unearthly.
“And you expect me to love you. Don’t you see that I can’t — I can’t? How can I care for you, or any man? Go away, leave me. I loathe you. I loathe you all. I don’t need you. I don’t want you.”
Similar Sex Blogging:
