Auschwitz

They always try to trap me, he tells them. He depicts women as the police, as gaolers, coming for him with chains. It is, he tells a friend, entrapment. This is the way he rationalises his brutal lifelong exploitation of women, his verbal and emotional abuse, his sadism: as self-protection. He looks like a baby when he tells them this – that little moue followed by that sudden smile. He entertains himself with documentary footage of women being abused. This, he thinks, is fantasy (for him, not for them). He charms with sentimental stories about his little old granny but ejaculates every night over images of women stripped of their dignity, of women subjected to a sexualised cruelty and a brutality that, were it meted to prisoners of war, would cause political outrage. All women are fucking rubbish, he thinks. Little old granny never had a group of sneering men ejaculate and urinate into her face after a violent gangbang or had to perform ATM for rent: the very thought makes him feel as if the walls are closing in. But you can do what the fuck you like to other women; he couldn’t give a shit. Like a predator, he flatters and lies to achieve his aim, grooming women so he can seduce them and add them to his collection. Among the many innocuously labelled folders of pornography on his PC, he keeps folders of the pornography he asks women to make for him. All those photographs and videos, dating back decades. “Send me a picture of your garden,” he orders them. Sometimes it occurs to him that he’s a little like a serial killer with his sexual trophies, and then he laughs: because it’s funny. They make him feel safe, all those images, they make him feel like more of a man. He takes out on women all the rage and humiliation he experienced at the hands of men as a child, and here is his evidence. One of his friends said it was a little like seeing the piles of shoes at Auschwitz.

- Antonella Gambotto-Burke

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