[untitled]

 Rape and Torture and Murder

 By Sean Douglas

 

 

FOREWORD

 

     This was not submitted to me anonymously, although I present it here as anonymous, as it was intended to be presented, if at all.

     The book contained herein was given to me by a friend.

     The kind of friend that you don’t want to have over the house.

     The kind you don’t introduce to your girlfriend.

     The kind of friend you wish you had never met.

     He wasn’t my friend first.   He was a friend of a friend.

     My friend thought that we’d get along so he got us together and then he was my friend too.

     We got to know each other over time and when I began to realize what a f*****g nut-job he was I told him he should write a book.

     People say that s**t all the time.

     “You should write a book.” or “I should write a book.”

     It’s like saying, “How are you?”.

     It’s just something people say.

     They don’t really want to know how you’re doing.

     The people that work at the places you go.   They got enough of their own problems.

     They don’t need to hear about the petty drama of your banal little lives.

     They’re living lives of boring desperation too.

     Most people couldn’t write a book if they wanted to, which is good, because no one wants to read your stupid f*****g life story anyway.

     Unless you’re Helen Keller or Anne Frank you’ve got no business writing books about your boring a*s life.

     But my friend took me seriously and a week later he shows up with a manila folder full of copy paper.

     He held it out towards me and said it was the book I told him he should write.

 

     I started reading the book.

     I couldn’t seem to get away from it.

     I put it down when I had to go to work or go to sleep, but other than that the book was what I did for a few days.

     I read so much my eyes would get dry and itchy and my a*s would go numb and I’d lose track of the time.

     It wasn’t that it was too good to put down.

     Actually it was the opposite.

 

     He came by the house a couple days later.

     He asked me what I thought.

     I asked him if he was f*****g kidding me.

     He just looked me in the eyes like he was trying to read my mind.

     Trying to look right through me.

     Trying to figure out something out about me.

     He asked me if I had read it through to the end yet.

     I said I hadn’t gotten to the end yet.

     I’m not a quick reader.

     He said I should.

     The more I read, the more uneasy I felt.

     Then I finished his book and I read his little message.

     The next time the guy called me, I saw his number on the caller i.d. and I didn’t answer and he didn’t leave a message.

     That same day I went out and tried to buy a gun.

     Just to have around the house.

     Maybe on the bedside table or under my pillow while I slept.

     You know, for protection.

     The gun shop guy told me there was a seven day waiting period.

     I told him I needed a gun today.

     The guy gave me a look and asked me why I needed a gun so bad that day.

     If I told him, he’d think I was f*****g crazy, so I said nevermind and left.

     I’m lucky he didn’t call the cops or make a citizen’s arrest right then and there.

     Not that I had anything to be guilty about.

     I just wanted some protection.

     My “friend” called a couple more times, and when he figured out I was avoiding his calls he left a voice message.

     “I presume, since you’re avoiding my calls, that you’ve finished reading my book.   In case you were still wondering, it’s all true.   I meant everything I said, including the little post-script I left for your eyes only.   Hope our paths won’t have to cross again.   It’s in your hands now.   I’ll let you figure it out on your own.   Have a nice life.”

     I will never forget that message.

     I had read the whole thing.

     I knew what he meant about the post-script.

     I packed up what I needed and got the f**k out of my apartment.

     I broke my lease.

     Who cares?   It beats the alternative.

     What I didn’t think I absolutely needed I threw out or left behind.   It’s just stuff.

     I checked into a motel under a fake name, paying for the room for a week in advance with cash.

     I didn’t sleep that night, despite the fact that I took the biggest f*****g knife from my kitchen with me and kept it on the bedside table where I could get at it quick.

     I kept the light on so I could see, and the TV off so I could hear, and kept checking to make sure that I could get to the knife quick if I needed to.

     Reaching out and touching the handle.

     Not that it would help.

     I didn’t go to work the next day.

     I had a little money in the bank.

     I never went back to that place.

     I figured he could find me there too easily.

     Not that I didn’t think he couldn’t find me if he wanted to badly enough.

     I just didn’t want to have to look that guy in the eyes again if I didn’t have to.

     Instead I went to the Attorney General’s office and got my background check done.

     I went to a different gun store and let the owner help me pick out a good gun.

     An automatic is easier to reload than a revolver.

     Not that I’d need that many bullets.

     I put in my order and waited seven days.

     Those were the longest seven days of my life.

     As soon as I got the gun I left town.

     I moved back to the city I grew up in, where I still knew most of the people or knew people who knew them.

     I don’t think I ever told my “friend” where I came from.

     At least I didn’t think I did.

     I stayed with a friend from high school for a month and got a job, and when I got the money up I got my own place.

     I kept the stack of printed pages.

     Manila folder and all.

     I kept them where no one would accidentally pick it up and start leafing through them.

     It was a dirty little secret we shared.

     My friend and I.

     The kind of thing that you don’t tell anyone.

     Anyone.

     But you can’t just isolate yourself and hope that everything will be alright.

     I didn’t read the papers or watch the news, but you can’t help but hear things.

     It was neverending.

     I’d hear about something and wonder if it was my “friend”.

     Out there.   Doing his thing.

     Nothing really helped.

     Now I just don’t care.

     It’s been so long.

     Maybe he’s out there doing his thing.

     Maybe he’s not.

     But knowing what I know, I felt guilty.

     Like I was part of his fucked up plan.

     So here it is.

     It’s all I got.

     I’m not telling you anything more.

     I don’t have to.

     I know my rights.

     I’ve already done too much by passing this on.

     Maybe now I can sleep at night without waking up at every little sound.

     Maybe he’ll come for me.

     Maybe he won’t.

     There’s no use worrying about it anymore.

     I’m done with worrying.

     It’s just not worth it.

     It makes life not worth living.

     So just kill me already.

     In my mind I’ve died a thousand indescribable deaths.

     I think that’s enough deaths for anyone.

     There’s nothing that could happen now that would surprise me.

     At least I hope there’s not.

     You can believe me or not.

     I don’t f*****g care.

     It’s not my responsibility anymore.

     Here it is.

     You’ll either read it or you won’t.

     You‘ll believe me or you won’t.

     You do what you do and then you move on.

 

Sean Douglas

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     I’m not going to tell you my name.

     So don’t bother skipping ahead and trying to figure out if you know me.

     I’m not one of those guys that has a guilty conscience that keeps him up at night and is just dying for someone to figure out who he is so it can all be over with.

     One of those, “Stop me before I kill again!”, clichés.

     So don’t bother going through this with a fine-toothed comb and trying to put together all of the evidence, hoping that like pieces of a puzzle when assembled correctly you’ll see the big picture.

     Because, really, I’m not that stupid.

     Don’t bother trying to use special solutions and ultra-violet light to try to see if I left any fingerprints on the paper with my natural skin and hair oils.

     Fingerprinting isn’t an exact science.

     That s**t’s for cop shows.

     I’ve never been arrested, so my prints won’t be in the system.

     And don’t bother trying to trace the paper, ink, or printer.

     All of which are common as dirt and can be acquired at any major office supply store.

     I’m telling you all of this because I want to save you some valuable time and effort.

     I’m telling you this because I want us to start off on the right foot.

     I’m telling you this because I want us to be friends.

 

     So maybe you’re wondering what it is that I do that requires that I take so many precautions.

     Maybe you’re wondering if you should waste your time reading any more of this.

     Maybe you’re wondering if these are the idle ramblings of one of the many mentally unbalanced members of your community.

     One of those psychotics living in your community that somehow slipped off their medication routine again, and dashed this off between time spent listening to the secret alien government transmissions coming in over the fillings in their teeth and having conversations with their dog about killing the president to win the love of some famous female movie star because he knows that they have so much in common and they would be great together if only she knew everything that he knew about how they were meant for each other.

      If that’s the case, then fine.

     Stop reading.

     Just go about your daily life like you never saw this.

 

     Still with me?

 

     I knew you would be.

     It’s human nature.

     Everyone slows down when driving by the site of a car crash on the highway.

     Not because the emergency response team is there and the lights are flashing and it’s the sensible thing to do.   But because they want to see the smashed up cars and maybe a mangled body.

     But you never get to see the bodies.

     By the time the fire trucks and ambulances get there all you ever see are the dinged up cars and car parts and automotive fluids glimmering by the spinning lights.

     Maybe white sheets on gurneys or maybe someone getting fitted for a neck brace if you’re lucky.

 

     Enough foreplay.

 

     Let’s get to the f*****g.

 

     I kill people.

 

     Yes, people.

 

     I didn’t say, or rather write, “I killed somebody.”

     Not that that isn’t an important enough event that it might weigh heavily enough on someone’s conscience that they’d feel compelled to anonymously relieve the pressure of their guilty conscience on their daily lives.

 

     And I didn’t say, or rather, write, that I killed people.

     Although I have killed people and I still do when I want to.   What I mean is that it’s not like I’m planning on stopping anytime soon, so both the past and present tense are correct in this case.

 

     Not that I’m killing anyone right now.

     Killing somebody requires a fair amount of effort and attention, at least the way that I go about it.

     And I can’t exactly type and kill someone at the same time.

     Well, I guess I could, but that would just be ridiculously indulgent and I don’t think I’d enjoy it as much.

     So although I wasn’t killing anyone while I wrote this, maybe I’m in the process of killing someone while you read this.

     So maybe I am killing someone “right now”.

 

     Wouldn’t that be interesting?

     Think about that for a second.

     Let that sink in.

 

     Maybe you’re thinking, “What the f**k?”, or “Jesus Christ! What the f**k am I doing reading this?”

     Like I said, you can walk away any time you want to.

     Go ahead.

     Put it down.

     Call up your friends or spend some time with your family.

     There’s hundreds of other better things to spend your time doing.

 

     Maybe you’ve already moved past that and you’ve moved on to the reporter’s mantra.

     The big six.

     The who, what, where, when, why, and how?

 

     I don’t mean to sound self-important, but it’s a little bit more complicated than all that.

 

     The who is easy enough, but I’m not going to tell you who I am.

     And it’s not like I’m going to tell you the names of the people I killed or where the bodies are buried.

     This is not that kind of confession.

     And it’s not like all of them are buried anyhow.

 

     The what is rape, and torture, and murder, so if this reads like a hotlist of things you’re just not interested in reading about then you might as well stop here.

     But it’s also about love and death.

     Hope and disillusionment.

     Beginnings and endings.

 

     The where I’ll explain in due time, but as I already said, I’m not naming names or drawing maps to where to find the bodies.   You’ll either find them and figure out who they are or you won’t.

 

      The when just doesn’t matter, there’s no one reason why, and the how I’ll tell you in a little while if you really, really want to know.

     But just be sure you really want to know.

 

     Maybe a better question is, “How many?”

     But to be honest, and maybe it sounds callous, but I kind of lost track of how many.

     Sure.   I could sit down and figure it out, but that’s just too much like work.

     I tried that a few times in college when I was really racking up some numbers.

     Working out on a sheet of lined paper, who, and what I did with them.

     Not murders, mind you.

     Just girls I had been with since I had started being with girls.

     I made a list of names and after the names I devised a key to keep track of what we had done together.

     “K” was for Kissed, obviously, although I didn’t differentiate between plain kissing and French kissing.

     A little pentagram star was for f*****g, and if I remembered how many times, I put that next to it in brackets, although later on down the list it would’ve been too much work to figure out a proper number.

     In high school when fate smirked down and saw fit to bestow a woman upon me the number of times we had sex was usually in the one to ten range.   Then we’d drift apart or whatever.

     Capricious youth.

     “BJ” was for blow-job with a little check mark if I came in her mouth.

     I didn’t differentiate between spit and swallow.

     “C” was for cunnilingus, for the girls that I went down on, though I didn’t bother making any special notation for sixty-nine-ing.

     “A” was for anal sex, but since I don’t prefer anal, that one was pretty rare.   Usually with the girls that would look up at you, their eyes half-closed with passion and would breathily murmur, “You can do anything you want to me.”, which I always figured meant, “You can put it in my a*s if you want to, I wouldn’t mind.   In fact, I think I’d kind of like it if you did.”

     I mean, what else is that supposed to mean?

     We’ve already gone down on each other and we’re in the middle of having sex.

     I don’t think they really wanted me to do whatever I wanted to do.

     I don’t think they wanted me to bite off one of their n*****s, probably the left one, and spit their severed n****e into their mouths while kissing them, or to try and find out what was the largest item in my dorm room that would fit inside their vagina without tearing it, and how far in it would fit before causing serious internal trauma.

     I don’t think they really wanted me to do whatever I wanted to do.

 

     I kept updating the list for a while, but after a while it just seemed petty.

     It seemed like I was pushing for stuff just to be able to put it on the list as opposed to just letting things happen naturally, so I got rid of the list, tearing it up and flushing it down the toilet so no one would find it in the trash or dig it out of the landfill a hundred years from now.

     I also got rid of it because the last thing I wanted was for some girl I was dating coming across the list for some unforeseen reason.

     Everyone knows that everyone that they get with has a history, but it’s a completely different thing to see the history on paper.   In chronological order.   To see the notches on the belt or the bedpost.

     I bet if everyone kept a list or there was some public record that you could look up online, a lot more people would make it a point to buy a pack of condoms before that first big date.

     I’m sure the nationwide revelation of that scale would have an amazing impact on condom sales, but as with any major revelation, over time, the shocking would become familiar.

     There are very few things available for people to do to or with each other that haven’t been going on since the dawn of mankind, so the artificial puritanical attitude about sex and sexuality never really made much sense to me.

     Do what you’re going to do.   But don’t apologize after you’ve done it.

     Apologizing is supposed to imply that given the very same situation, you would have done things differently.

     That’s just impossible.

     What apologizing should really mean is that you did what you did because it made sense at the time, but now, having done it, you realize that it was a bad idea, and you’ll try not to do the same thing in the future.

     I never understood the concept of guilt or remorse about things that you already did.

     Maybe that’s part of what makes me who and what I am.

 

     I wasn’t always like this.

     I didn’t always do the things that I do now.

     That would have just been ridiculous.

     No one is born a racist.

     No one is born a rapist.

     No one is born a molester.

     No one is born a murderer.

 

     Not that I’m a racist or a child molester.

 

     And just so you know, I didn’t torture animals when I was a child.

     Actually, I’m quite fond of animals in the abstract.

     It’s humans that I’m not so big on.

     I like animals and children in much the same way.

     I like to hang out with them and play with them.

     And not play with them like, sexually, but like playing fetch or roughhousing.

     I like visiting other people’s pets and children, but I know I don’t want either for myself.

     Keeping an animal prisoner in your home for your amusement just seems cruel.

     I know that most people take good care of their pets, but it just doesn’t sit right with me and I’m not going to change my mind, so we may as well move onto something else.

     Like going to the zoo.

     Keeping animals in cages so that the human animals can come and look at them.

     It’s like they’re being punished for being interesting.

     You wouldn’t do that to people.

     Well.

     You wouldn’t.

     That’s why I appreciate earning the friendship of stray cats and wild animals.

     Any interested a*****e can pet a friendly dog, but it takes a certain kind of calmness and patience to get a squirrel to trust you enough to come close enough to take a peanut from between your pinched fingertips at the end of an outstretched hand at the end of an outstretched arm.

 

     And just so you know, my sexual development was pretty natural.

     And by natural, I mean it progressed organically in fits and starts from curiosity to experimentation to a relative proficiency until I was a fully functioning adult member of sexual society.

     Most people that do what I do are supposed to be sexually dysfunctional.

     I’m not a confused and frustrated homosexual filled with self-loathing.

     I don’t think there’s anything wrong with homosexuality.

     I just hate it when homosexuals make a big deal about their homosexuality.

     I don’t make a big deal about my heterosexuality.

     I wouldn’t put a sticker on the back of my car proclaiming my heterosexuality.

     I wouldn’t get together with a bunch of other heterosexuals and march through the streets of the city to demand respect for or demonstrate the merits of heterosexuality.

     Whatever.

     In a thousand years we’re all going to be asexual anyway.

 

     Oh, and that whole thing about crimes against women being a result of frustration at being unable to achieve or maintain an erection, and the frustration that this inspires causing them to vent their frustration as sexual violence against their victims doesn’t apply to me.

     People that do what I do are alleged to be sexually dysfunctional.

     I am not impudent, impotent, or suffering from “erectile difficulty”.

     I think that the people that presume to know what motivates their behaviors have absolutely no idea what motivates those behaviors.

     I don’t do what I do because I have a broken penis and I’m using a weapon as a replacement for my erection and metaphorically penetrating my victims.

     I’ve never had a hard time getting a hard-on.

     If anything I get them too often.

     I’ve jerked off at every job I’ve ever worked.

     Not in the line of duty, that kind of s**t will get you fired or arrested.

     But if I get a break, you can be sure that I’m milking one out in some relatively private and secluded place.   Usually the restroom, but I’m not picky.   Anywhere dark with a lock on the door will do.

     And I know what you’re thinking.

     Yes.   I did work in the “food service industry”.

     But I never put a load into the ingredients.

     Every Burger King there’s some crazy m**********r that just has to put his own special ingredient into the mayonnaise or the “secret sauce”.

     Not me.

     I always shot my load into the sink or toilet and washed my hands afterwards.

     I may be certifiably insane, but jizzing in the foodstuff?   That’s just icky.

     I’m not physically impotent.

     I’m emotionally impotent.

     I’m a receptive, perceptive, inventive, and compassionate lover when I want to be.

     I understand how other people feel.

     I just don’t care.

     I have just as much fun making love as I do making hate.

     It’s all the same to me.

     What I do is different than sex.

     It hasn’t replaced sex for me.

     It’s different.

     I still have sexual desires and express them in a relatively normal manner.

     But sometimes I take things one step further.

     To me it seems the next logical step, but maybe you’ll disagree.

     I crossed a line that few do.

     Maybe everyone else doesn’t feel compelled to take that step.

     It wasn’t like it was something that I planned.

     I didn’t think about the consequences of my actions.

     In a way, what you do makes you who you are.

     But maybe I’m an example of the next evolutionary step in the development of humanity as sexual beings.

     Maybe I’m just more evolved than everyone else.

     More self-actualized.

 

     I didn’t have a fucked up childhood either.

     My mother didn’t dress me in girl’s clothes and call me a girl’s name because she always wanted a little girl.

     Yes, my parents hit me.   But not any more than anyone else’s and a little less than some.   Back then everyone’s parents hit them, and in the unlikely event that I ever have kids, I’m hitting them too.   Well, at least when they deserve it.   There’s just something about a smack upside the head that gets the message across a lot better than “taking a time-out”.

     The way that people raise their children now is unnatural.

     Our species has gone for ten thousand years disciplining their children with corporal punishment.

     And now these fruity new-age hippie parents think that they can just bust an improv and everything’s going to work out fine.

     They let their children think that they are the warm little center of the world and then are surprised when their kid throws a temper tantrum when they don’t get what they want.

     Even a fool should be able to figure out the reason for these annoying outbursts.

     These children are experiencing a natural reaction to disappointment.

     The frustration of desire.

     It’s like an allergic reaction.

     These spoiled little s***s haven’t been immunized against the frustration of desire that everyone experiences everyday.

     Life is full of disappointment.

     Life is soul-stranglingly boring mediocrity scattered with brief moments of transcendent beauty.

     But without the perpetual suffering of existence, those brief moments of contentment and pleasure would seem less sweet.

     Without death, life has less value.

     Doing what I do, I’m practically providing a public service.

     You should really thank me.

     Every time I kill someone, someone else thinks, “F**k! That could have been me.” and maybe they try to live a more fully actualized existence.

     Probably not.

     They probably just shrug and go back to shouldering the weight of the world.

     But I don’t care.

     I’ll whistle while the church burns.

     I know what’s coming.

     What’s in store for the self-important parents of these self-centered children.

     If you don’t like the way that I look at life, wait twenty years.

     We’re going to be living like Logan’s Run.

     It’s going to be Soilent Green time.

     The human species will continue growing exponentially.

     There will be too many people and not enough resources available to perpetuate the human experiment.

     The kids that these parents worked so hard for, to make candy-coated golden sparkling rainbow bubbles for them to grow up in?

      Those same kids are going to toss them into industrial sized wood chippers and plow them into the ground so that they’ll have enough to eat.

      With the continual advance of medical science, people are living longer lives, but medical science hasn’t done much to prevent the deterioration of age.

      People are living longer, but they’re like mummies, or zombies out of a George Romero movie.

      They cheated death, and death in its disappointment lingers around them like a fart in a car.

      The old are the ghosts of the young.   They’re already dead, but they just don’t know it yet.

      The social security system is already over-taxed by the unnatural extension of human life.

      The financial burden of the old on the young steadily increases.

      The age for retirement gets rolled back every now and then.   But how long do you think the young will complacently tolerate being forced to sacrifice a steadily increasing percentage of their wages to support a class of society that, embittered by their dwindling vitality, think that their artificially enhanced ability to defy death makes them a privileged class entitled to all of the benefits of society without doing any of the work necessary to keep things running smoothly?

     With all of their complaining about the youth of today, they continually piss in the punchbowl of the hand that feeds them.

     Eventually the young and able are going to get sick of it.

     When do you think that resentment of the burden of supporting the elderly will eclipse parental fidelity?

     How long can you live on your knees, with someone else’s s**t under your fingernails?

     The young will realize the old for what they are.

     Dead weight.

     The pilgrims had things worked out.

     They figured it out pretty quickly.

     There were those that thought themselves aristocratically predisposed and thought that working the land was below them.   But after that first winter they figured things out right fast.

     “He who does not work will not eat.”

     Do you think that people have changed that much since then?

     The s**t will hit the fan, and the planes will hit the buildings.

     I think it’s going to be great.

     I hope I’m alive when it happens.

     Only the smart, the quick, and the strong will survive.

     And as much as I’m as full of myself as anybody else that spends their lives covered head-to-toe in their own bullshit and convinces themselves that it doesn’t stink.

     As much as I rationalize how I’m different and special and better than everyone else.

     As much as all that, I’m not entirely confident that I’m going to be one of the ones around after the great instant death dodgeball game which is bound to occur when reality shows become reality.

     I don’t think I’m going to get eliminated in the first couple of episodes, but I’m bound to get voted off of the island given enough time.

     When the supermarkets have all been picked clean and left to rot and fall in on themselves.

     Sure I’m smart and fit and capable.

     At least a lot smarter than most people.

     But it doesn’t matter how smart you are when there are five guys that have their minds made up to take what you have for themselves.

     Your food or your woman or your life.

     Sure you can get some weapons.   Some firearms.

     Stack the odds.

     Prepare for the inevitable.

     But when society implodes, even the bullet factories are going to stop running.

     No matter how strong you are, there’s always someone stronger or a couple guys that might not be as strong, but they’re willing to work together to take your a*s out.

     You’ve got to sleep sometime.

     No matter how smart you are there’s always someone that’s smarter.

     Unless you’re f*****g Stephen Hawking.

     But when the time comes, he’s going to be one of the first to go.

     A paralyzed guy in a wheelchair that spends his time daydreaming about outer space?

     That m**********r better get a bulletproof bubble he can cruise around with that wheelchair in.

     He’d better have a bunker in his basement a mile underground with fifty years worth of food stashed away.   And someone that’s willing to help him piss and s**t in exchange for food and shelter.   And even then, what’s to keep that person from letting good old Steve starve and rot in his own filth?

     The elemental goodness inherent in humanity?

     The natural tendency of people to “Do unto others” as they would have done unto them?

     F**k that.

     You want to talk about the fundamental kindness of people, talk to a policeman, or someone that works at a home for children that have been physically or sexually abused, or someone that works at a rape-crisis center, or battered woman’s shelter.

     Or someone that works with drug addicts.

     Yeah.   There are some real winners.

     You know the difference between an alcoholic and a heroin addict?   An alcoholic will steal your wallet.   A junkie will steal your wallet and then help you look for it.

     The irony is that after the fall, these human pieces of s**t, they’ll be the ones that will take you out.

     All of those guys that you laughed at because they weren’t as smart as you were and had to take remedial classes?

     They will drag you kicking and screaming out from under the rock you’ve crawled under with your family and bash your head to a pulp while they f**k your wife and children and rifle through your pockets.

     You don’t think that some drug-addled a*****e has what it takes to live in the brave new world waiting just around the corner?

     So close that the news reads like an advertisement for armageddon?

     So close that you can smell stale blood and the smoke of burning bodies and buildings in your dreams?

     You realize the amount of effort it takes to live a lie?

     To continually pretend that you’re something other than what you are so you can take advantage of people?

     They are the cockroaches of humanity.

     They’re not invincible.   But they’re a lot more prepared for the collapse of society than you are.

     They know how to survive.

     How to lie and cheat and steal and remorselessly take advantage of others.

     How to do whatever it takes to perpetuate the empire of the self.

     When the police stop showing up for work and the military is too overwhelmed trying to keep their s**t together and everyone stays home to try to protect their homes and families instead of yours.

     Those addicts that you turn your nose up at and make that sour milk face?

     Those drug-damaged brain-tumors of society?

     They’ll know just what to do.

     They’ll rape you and kill you and eat you.

     Not necessarily in that order.

     Not that I’m in any position to judge, but at least I’m honest about it.

     I know what I am.

     I recognize my natural tendencies and I follow them.

     Addicts always act as if their addiction isn’t their fault.

     That they’re somehow not responsible for their actions.

     The government spends a significant percentage of its budget each year fueling the machinery that administers to this considerable sub-section of our society.   Throwing money at the problem and building more prisons when that doesn’t work.

     Statistical research indicates that 85% of heroin addicts that participate in Methadone Maintenance Treatment Programs return to the use of illicit substances.

     What does that tell you?

     The inability to control the yearning for drugs and alcohol is diagnosed as a medical problem.

     A psychological disorder.

     Espousing the philosophy that the predisposition towards addictive tendencies is reflective of an individual’s attempt to use illicit substances to try to establish a kind of mental equilibrium to address the body’s natural inability to maintain a natural psychological equilibrium.

     They’re diagnosed with anxiety, and depression, and manic-depression, and bipolar disorder resulting from post-traumatic stress because their parents used to hit them or because they were raped.

     And maybe that’s true for some people.

     But a little bit of stress is natural.

     There are whole parts of our genetic code that have been honed by thousands of years of evolution to deal with stress and anxiety and trauma.

     For thousands of years of human evolution, life has been merciless and unforgiving.

     The wolf has always been at the door.

     A change in the weather and the crops fail and everyone starves.

     Eat and you become hungry again.

     Sleep and you become tired again.

     Enough is never enough.

     Contentment is temporary and equilibrium is illusory.

     Sleep, health and wealth must be disturbed to be appreciated.

     Maybe drugs and alcohol and caffeine and nicotine are just convenient shortcuts.

     Maybe some people just like to get high.

     Have you ever done drugs?

     I’ve done my fair share.

     Have you ever drank enough that the sound of everything is dull?

     Until you’re numb.

     Until there’s a warm, soft, forcefield between you and everything around you?

     Like you’re the warm little center of everything.

     Maybe it’s not the addict’s fault.

     Society exerts a continual pressure upon people to live up to its expectations, but it’s not that people have changed.   The rules have changes.   Society’s expectations have changed.   With the exponential advances in our artificial technologies, obtaining employment requires a steadily increasingly complicated set of skills.

     Without a high-school diploma, you’re destined to live a life scratching out a living on minimum wage.   Or hustling to get what you need to survive.

     Living under the radar.

     Living in fear.

     We’ve outsmarted ourselves.

     People are worried that we’re going to accidentally ruin the planet.

     They’re worried about recycling and global warming.

     I think that’s stupid.

     Recycling is a myth.

     98% of America’s waste stream is commercial and industrial waste.

     And there are, like, around 300,000,000 people living in America.

     So even if you live a completely waste free lifestyle, it’s only going to decrease the waste stream by one-three-millionth of two-percent.

     Think about that next time you’re washing out a tuna fish can.

     Or carrying around a bottle until you can find a recycling kiosk.

     It’s all just self-indulgent bullshit.

     The only reason to recycle is if it makes you feel better.

     The only time that recycling is going to make a difference is when it’s too late.

     When we’ve finally used up all of the available resources.

     The landfills will become goldmines.

     People will be fighting for the right to dig up everything anyone has ever thrown away to facilitate humanity’s last ditch attempt at continuing its existence as one of mother nature’s failed experiments.

     Global warming?

     How self-centered of humanity to believe that we’re a danger to the planet.

     Planetary phenomena are larger than humanity.

     Maybe our behavior just happened to coincide with larger astronomical events.   Maybe the sun is getting hotter.

     But maybe this time we’ve managed to screw things up so badly that we threw things permanently out of equilibrium.

     Maybe the surface of the planet will become so warm that all of the water will break down into its constituent gasses and in a billion years, an alien life form will wonder if there was ever water on planet earth.

     The way we think about Mars.

     Television transmissions theoretically radiate in every direction forever.

     What must alien races think about our culture reflected in our media?

     What will people a million years from now think about our lives today?

     That’s the problem with people.

     We can’t appreciate the beauty of anything that doesn’t revolve around us.

     Just look at the language.

     Sunrise.

     Sunset.

     The sun doesn’t move, at least not in relationship to the earth.

     Our planet is just a speck on the universal map.

     A year is one of the planet’s orbits divided by three-hundred and sixty-five and a quarter revolutions of the planet on its axis.

     If the earth stopped spinning, but kept revolving around the sun, would it be the same time all year?

     If the earth kept spinning, but stopped revolving around the sun, would it stay the same day?

     These are the kind of things that keep me up at night.

     My only consolation is that nothing matters on a long enough timeline.

     In five billion years, the suns going to go supernova and everything you’ve ever known will be nothing more than space dust.

     Maybe global warming is just Mother Nature’s menstrual cycle.

     The extinction of humanity will be just like mother earth discharging ropy ribbons of menstrual blood into space.

     Another failed experiment.

     Anthropomorphistic analogies aside, Mother Nature is not humane.

     Mother Nature does not care if you live or die.

     Maybe we’re the melanoma.

     The cancer that keeps growing and growing until the systems start shutting down one by one.

     But maybe we’re not the first.

     Maybe the dinosaurs were mother earth’s first brush with cancer, but her immune system was able to take care of it.   Maybe the dinosaurs were a problem, so mother earth flushed them out.

     Some people think it was a giant f*****g space rock that hit the earth and reversed the earth’s polarity and then it fell into orbit around the planet and we call it the moon.

     But no one knows for sure.   We weren’t around.

     We can’t even predict next week’s weather and we’re presumptuous enough to think that we can figure out what happened millions of years before anything that we would comfortably call a human being walked the earth?

     F**k that noise.   It’s all guesswork with science kits.

     But I’ll take the scientific option over the creationism concept.

     Remember that time in history when humanity thought that the world was created expressly for them?

     Let me get this straight.

     There’s this giant conscious being that exists in some trans-dimensional place.

     For some reason beyond our grasp, he decided to make our universe.

     A universe that is so large that it is truly beyond our ability to wrap our minds around it in any real sense.

     And while he was designing the universe, he decided to make our solar system and our planet and our species the whole reason for the entire project.

     The universe is a giant playpen for these smart monkeys that live on a planet in a solar system that isn‘t even in the center of the universe as far as we can tell.

     Some people even think that dinosaurs were created in simultaneity with man.

     Mostly creationists.   Who are just stupid.

     Let me get that one straight.

     Every variety of animal now in existence on earth lived within walking distance of Noah’s Ark?

     And everyone on the planet was bred from the same small group of people?

     So we’re all the product of incest?

     That explains a lot for me.

 

     Organized religion never really had any great appeal to me.

     I’ve read The Bible, The Book of Mormon, The Sri Isopanishad, and the Tao Te Ching.

     They were all great works of fiction.   Very interesting, but equally useless.

     Church was a boring place that my parents made me go every Sunday where nothing that the guy behind the bureau said ever made any sense.

     There were all these stupid f*****g parables about loaves and fishes and blood and wine and Good Samaritans, and doing unto others as you’d have them do unto you.

     I remember being forced to attend Sunday School where there was a sheepish shrewish young woman that spent most of the time trying to deal with our restlessness.

     I was forced to memorize the Our Father and get my first communion, but at least I was smart enough to negotiate the terms.   My mother said that if I got my first communion I didn’t have to go to church anymore.   I guess she figured if I got my first communion then my soul would be saved.

     Insert irony here.

 

     I didn’t think much about religion in high school except to know that I didn’t have much use for it.

     I tried out Wicca.

     It was just retarded.

     It was kind of like Christianity but the books were a lot cooler and you got to play with cooler toys.

     One had miracles and the other had magic, but at least Wicca was sexy.

     I learned how to read Tarot cards, but I never bothered to memorize what the cards meant.

     All I really learned was that tarot cards look cool and people will believe almost anything you tell them.

     I took a couple philosophy courses in college.   I was really good at logic.

     It was great to learn how to express the vague but pervasive disagreement I had with Christianity.

     I had a revelation.

     The qualities inherent in the Judeo-Christian God are Omniscience, Omnipotence and Perfection.

     In layman’s terms, he is all-knowing, all-powerful and perfect.   He can not ever be wrong.

     This is important.   I hope you’re paying attention.

     God knows EVERYTHING.

     He knows everything that has ever happened and everything that is ever going to happen.   Since God already knows everything you’re ever going to do, then anything that you’re ever going to do has already been decided for you.   This is called predetermination.

     If God is all powerful, then it follows that humanity is powerless.   If humanity is powerless, then any delusions that we have of the ability to effect our destiny through action are false.

     And perfection.   Well, I don’t really have to explain perfection for you.

     Fine and well.

     But if everything that I have ever done or am ever going to do has already been determined, then everything is God’s fault.

     Kids with cancer?   God’s fault.

     Global warming?   Thank God!

     Child molesters?   Rapists?   Murderers?   Racism?   Slavery?   War?   Abortions?   Blame God.

     John Wayne Gacy?   Jeffrey Dahmer?   Ted Bundy?   Andrei Chikatilov?   All God’s children.

     It’s such a relief.

     If you believe in God, then you should be absolved of any kind of personal responsibility for your actions.   So, in essence, being a Christian means never having to say you’re sorry.

     That would be great if I only could believe in God.

     Invisible man lives in the sky?

     And if you get on your knees and clasp your hands and wish real hard he makes thing go your way?

     I just can’t get behind that.

     Instead I choose free will.

     These days when people ask me what religion I am I tell them I’m an existentialist.

     Or a Satanist.

     A more complicated but more honest answer is that I practice chaos magic.

     I try to create a situation as close as possible to my desired results and I roll the cosmic dice and take my chances.

     I really think that’s the best anyone can ever hope for.

     At least this way I don’t have to meet up with a bunch of other people every Sunday so we can compare clothes.

 

     I grew up in a housing project.

     And no, I’m not going to tell you which one.

     But you can write that down in your little notepad.

     “Lived in housing project.”

     I’ll wait.

 

     There.

     I used to spend whole days outside just roaming around the woods on the outskirts of town.

     I loved the way that there was an infinite variety of difference in the natural environment compared to the artificial sameness of the city.

     For some reason, single pages of pornography littered the woods.

     I didn’t think about why when I was a kid, it was just something you grew up with so you accepted it without question.

     You’d see a bit of glossy pink paper and you’d pick it up since it caught your eye and there it was.

     A naked woman with a big hairy bush grimacing with pleasure or a naked man standing with his fists on his hips with his thick veiny c**k sticking out in front of him, defying gravity.

     Now that I look back, it was probably homosexuals rendezvousing in the woods on the edge of town after dark to avoid the judgeful eyes of the city.

     Maybe child molesters taking their prey out to the isolation of the woods to make their move.

     “Hey.  Kid.   You ever see a naked lady?   See?   Does that make you hot?   No?   Well is makes me hot.   Maybe if you let me touch you.   No?   What if I gave you a dollar?”

 

     Speaking of child-molesters, no, I wasn’t molested as a child.

     Although my grand-father was a child-molester who diddled all his kids.

     Most of them buried it deep down inside of them and turned out alright.

     One of my uncles ended up being a pervert and there were a lot of rumors about him being a child molester.

     He volunteered as the first aid guy for the local little league.

     Let’s just say there were rumors.

     Thankfully he didn’t try anything funny on me.

     One day my mother looked at me really strangely and talked slower than she usually did when addressing me, like one talks toward a child or a moron.

     She asked, “When you stay at you uncle’s… does he ever… do things to you?”

     I didn’t answer right away because I was trying to figure out what she was talking about.

     I knew some of what was said in hushed tones when people talked about my uncle, but it didn’t mean anything to me.

     “What do you mean ‘things’?”, I asked.

     She looked at me like she was trying to read my mind.

     Like she was trying to look inside of me.

     She was trying to decide if I was lying.

     Because she knew that if my uncle had ever done the “things” she was asking about, then I would know exactly what kind of things she was asking about.

     So she looked at me really intensely for a minute or two and then her expression changed and she said, “Nothing.   Don’t worry about it.”

     She was so close.

     So close to that moment where she had to decide whether or not to explain the kind of things she was asking about.

      Whether or not to ask if my uncle ever asked to take a bath or shower with me, or played “sexy games” with me, or did anything unusual to my “bathing suit area”.

     Then she decided that the awkwardness of having to explain was more intense than her suspicion that her brother was molesting her son and she let it go.

      Thankfully he had not.

 

     Not that where I lived I was invulnerable to dangerous sexual adventure.

 

     One time I was playing in the woods behind my house.   I don’t know what I was playing.   Maybe some make-believe Indiana Jones adventure thing.   There was dense vegetation with a narrow path through it.   It was like Lord of the Flies.   I was trundling through the path and there were two people up ahead.   Two girls.   I recognized them.   Everyone knows everyone else in the housing projects.   One of them was a retarded girl that lived up the hill.   She wasn’t Down Syndrome retarded.   More like fetal alcohol retarded.   She had a bowl cut hairdo like Johnny Ramone and a scrunched-up distorted man face.   She was with a dark-skinned black girl who looked like Buckwheat’s older sister.   I only knew her by her nickname, Pooh.   I can’t make this s**t up.   Truth is stranger than fiction.

     The path was narrow so we met.

     I don’t remember the entire episode, but the girls had a hunk of dogshit on a stick and the deal was, they wanted me to show them my dick or eat dogshit.

     I remember somehow knowing that there was something inherently wrong with the situation.

     Maybe I should have just gone along with the game.

     Maybe I would have gotten a couple of blow jobs.   Or maybe I could have had sex with the both of them.   But I was, like, six, so it probably wasn’t physically possible.

     But maybe they’d flip the script and try to put the dogshit on a stick up my a*s.

     I never found out.

     I bolted out the way that I came in and I never mentioned it to anyone.

     Until now.

 

     Around the same time I had a friend named Neil.

     Neil was one of those kids who always looked dirty.

     Like a real-life Pigpen.

     He always had gummy brown dirt on his hands and around his mouth.

     Neil would drink his own pee if you asked him to.

     I don’t know how I first discovered this inclination, but all you had to do was ask him to and he’d undo his fly, pee a little into his cupped hand, and drink it.   I didn’t think of asking if he’d drink my pee too.   I’m not sure if that’s a missed opportunity or not.   How many people can say that someone else drank their pee?   Probably a lot more than the average person would ever want to know.

     Neil told me that his dad had a stack of Playboys in a closet in the house and I told him to go get a couple so we could check them out.   I waited outside while he went in.   About twenty minutes later his mom came to the door and said that Neil couldn’t come out to play.

     His dad caught him and he caught a beating.   I felt bad, but at least it wasn’t me.

 

     Speaking of urine, when I was around seven, I got busted at the babysitter’s talking her daughter into letting me watch her pee so I could see why girls sat down when they peed.   It was kind of hot.   The little girl had those batgirl underoos.   I spent the rest of the day catching accusatory looks from the babysitter while not knowing why what I did had been so awful.

     My mom came to pick me up and she and the babysitter talked in hushed tones and looked over in my direction every now and then.   They never talked to me about it, but I was also never trusted out of eye’s distance with her daughter again.

     That’s how people are.

 

     I was still a sexually curious child and this interest sometimes worked itself into play.

     I remember I was playing in the woods with a kid named Shane and a little girl whose name I’ve long since forgotten.

    I think we were playing some kind of imaginary G. I. Joe adventure whatever.

    I had a switch that I had plucked all of the branches off of.

    I remember thinking I was imagining myself as, like, a Baroness kind of character, and commanding the other two kids to strip while waving the switch around.

     I don’t know what I was thinking.

     I guess I was just curious about what the other kids looked like naked.

     Maybe I wanted to have them get together like they were having sex and see what happened.

    The other kids weren’t having it, thankfully, because I would have hated to have inadvertently permanently scarred two kids that early on in life.

 

     Not that all of the trouble I got into as a kid was sexually oriented.

     My first day of kindergarten my mother watched me from the other side of the fence.

     They let the parents hang out the first day to ease separation anxiety.

     They penned all of the kids in and let them run around and meet each other.

     My mother said I went up to each kid and said, “Hi!   Do you want to be my friend?”

     I was precocious.

     About a month later, during recess, I was playing an imaginary let’s pretend Star Wars game with a couple other kids.   One was a little boy and one was a little girl.   I had the kids standing about five feet away from me and about five feet apart.

     I was imagining I was Obi-Wan Kenobi and the pebble sized piece of asphalt I had in my hand I was going to try to throw between the two kids, which, in my imagination would go into the cavernous depths of the Death Star and somehow do something awesome.

     I swung my arm around and around and let the pebble fly with all of my little kid strength.  

     Unfortunately I was a kid and wasn’t very coordinated so I accidentally hit the little girl right in the f*****g eye.   I forget which one.

     Of course she freaked out and I got in trouble.

     She had to wear an eye patch for the rest of the year and I spent the rest of the year kneeling in a corner of the playground where two brick walls met.   I wasn’t allowed to play with the other kids and I got yelled at if I watched the other kids playing, so all I saw was brick wall.   I remember that kneeling on asphalt every recess really f*****g hurt.

     Welcome to school kid.   There are twelve more years where that came from.

 

     In first grade, my reputation preceded me and I spent the whole year in the back of the class with my desk in a cardboard refrigerator box.

     The teacher would hand in school work and I would pass it out when I was finished.

     The only time I got to leave the box was for lunch, to use the bathroom, and for recess.

     Kind of like working as an adult, except at least I got to go outside for recess.

     I still wasn’t allowed to play with the other kids.

     I had to sit on an asphalt curb on the side of the playground.

     The asphalt curb was hard and my a*s hurt, but it was a lot better than kneeling in a corner and I didn’t get yelled at for watching the other kids play.

 

     In fourth grade I almost got into a lot of trouble.

     I was obsessed with secret codes and I was obsessed with this one girl.

     She must have been pretty, because my two friends also liked her.

     We concocted this scheme to send her a letter.   To her house.   Through the mail.

     So we all wrote out a paragraph or so and transcribed all three onto a sheet of white-lined paper in code.

     It was a simple replacement code.

     We figured she’d crack it in an afternoon and she’d know about the communal crush we had.

     I don’t remember what my section was.   “Blah blah pretty.    Blah blah beautiful.   I’d love to f**k you.”   The last one I remember pretty well.   I didn’t know what it meant.   It was just something that guys said to girls they were interested in.   At least they did in my neighborhood.

     We didn’t hear anything about the letter, but I guess her parents caught wind of it, and her parents called my best friend Steve’s parents because they knew each other.

     One day Steve’s mom is supposed to be giving Steve and I a ride someplace when his mom turns into the school parking lot and puts the car in park and turns the car off.   We weren’t heading to the school, and there’s an odd tension in the car, so I knew something was up.

     Steve’s mom turns around and looks at me and asks, “Did you write that letter with Steven?”

     Even at that young age I could recognize a rhetorical question.

     “Yeah?”, I replied.

     She stared at me for about a minute, then just turned around and started the car up again.

     There wasn’t a lot said.   She just dropped me off at the unit I lived in at the housing project and Steve wasn’t allowed to hang out with me anymore.

 

     In fifth grade I still had a desk at the back of the room and I wasn’t doing my work.

     The teacher was a divorcee named “Ms. Gilchrist” and she made us pronounce the “Ms.” Which we all pronounced as “Mizz”.

     I hated her so I didn’t do my work, so they kept me back a year.

     Fifth grade was one of the times that they subjected all the kids to standardized testing.   My results came back and I was above the ninety-fifth percentile in all of the categories.

     Apparently I was a genius so the next year they sent me to a special program for geniuses.

     Like Bart Simpson in that Simpsons episode.

     I’d go to my regular school and then I’d get onto a small bus and we’d get dropped off at a different school.

     Ironically, the gifted program was held at a school which was mostly for retarded kids.

     All of the city’s misfit kids got quarantined in the same place.

     The instructor was a lithe woman with long jet black hair and glasses who always wore black, so of course I thought she looked like The Baroness which I thought was pretty cool.

     There was no structure and we were constantly working on “projects” and watching educational movies on a little 8mm projector.

     The girl I sent the “I’d love to f**k you.” letter to was in the gifted program too.

     That was a little awkward.

     Since the grading was unconventional I got passed up into sixth grade.

     The city didn’t renew the gifted program so the next year I was thrown back in with all of the other kids.

 

     In sixth grade I fell in love.   Twice.

     One was a blonde-haired, warm blue-eyed girl in my class.

     I think she liked me too if how she expressed her interest was prank-calling me.

     When I got my copy of the class picture at the end of the year I kept it underneath my pillow and I kissed her picture every night.

     Her parents moved them away and I never saw her again.

 

     The other one was a little more complicated.

     For some inexplicable reason I was really good at spelling.

     I won my school’s big spelling bee, and I went on to the citywide spelling bee.

     The last two kids were me and a thin black haired girl with big glasses.

     I fell for her hard.

     She had glasses, I had glasses.   We were both good spellers.

     I figured it was fate.

     The event was hosted in a cafeteria.

     She got the word cafeteria.

     I saw her look around frantically trying to find the word in the room.

     Maybe on a sign or something.

     She spelled it “cafateria”.

     She misspelled cafeteria in a cafeteria.

     I’m sure that she was aware of the inherent irony of the situation.

     I spelled it correctly so I won.

     Of course the girl f*****g hated me from that day on.

     If I had known anything about anything I would have misspelled the word and let her win.

     But I was confused.   I wanted to win the spelling bee and I wanted the girl to like me.

     I figured I’d probably never see the girl again so I went for it.

     The next day in school the principal came into the classroom with a big bouquet of balloons.

     I f*****g knew they were for me.

     I was so embarrassed.

     Since I spent all of my grammar school years in the same school, my reputation from kindergarten had followed me all the way to the sixth grade.

     I was still isolated in a desk away from all the other kids.

     All of the other kids resented me for the attention I was getting and I didn’t want any of it.

     I didn’t want the f*****g balloons.   I just wanted to disappear.

     I ended up going to the statewide spelling bee and getting tripped up by “tandem”.

     I spelled it “tandom” like “kingdom”.

     Why the f**k should I have known what tandem meant?   Much less how it was spelled.

 

     I figured things out, even though no adult would tell you anything directly.   They wouldn’t tell you what to do or how to act, but they sure gave you some heavy looks when you did something you weren’t supposed to.   And that was how you learned.   Social pressure.   Guilt.

     I managed to stay out of serious trouble, not being retarded or genetically predisposed to perverse compulsions.    I had my first kiss in seventh grade on Halloween night.   The obese best-friend of the girl that my friend Billy was seeing.   It was sweet and exhilarating.   But nothing else really came of it.

     I dated in high school when I could.

     Maybe dating was easy for some people.

     I could never figure the whole thing out.

     You met a girl you liked.   You probably went to the same school or knew some of the same people.   You got the message that you liked her over to her one way or another.

     Maybe she liked you.   Maybe she didn’t.

     If you liked each other you talked on the phone too much and made plans to hang out without adult supervision.   I didn’t have a car so I had to set it up so that the girl and I could be alone at either her parent’s place, my parent’s place, or the home of some mutual acquaintance.   It was never easy and it took a lot of lying and sneaking around.   I missed a lot of curfews and caught a lot of heat, but there was always a friend whose parent’s didn’t care what they did, whose house I could crash at for a few days until the intensity of my mom’s anger dulled from a raging fire back to smoldering embers.   In the end, she was more worried about my being missing for days rather than missing curfew, so in time she just let it go.   She just gave up and let me figure things out on my own.

     So you figured out how to be alone with the girl.   Maybe you got around to kissing and making out and fooling around.   If she hadn’t been fucked up by the male members of her family, or some scumbag a*****e rapacious ex-boyfriend who forced his way with her, or religious brainwashing then maybe you got around to having sex.

     But since neither of you really knew what you were doing it probably wasn’t very good.

     But it was the big thing.   The thing that everyone everywhere was always talking about.

     So even if it wasn’t very good, you did it anyways, figuring that eventually you’d get the hang of it.

     I lost my virginity at seventeen, which seemed a little old at the time.   There was a girl in the “remedial” classes that liked me.   She was pretty enough and in pretty good shape.   We started hanging out.   She was obviously a little slow.   Just a step behind.   Not like she was full-blown retarded.   Just slow.   I went over her house.   Her room looked like the room of a girl a few years younger than the both of us.   She had Barbie dolls and My Little Ponies and slap bracelets and colorful plastic costume jewelry strewn all over the place.   She had a pink plastic radio/tape player and she put in a Gloria Estefan tape and sang along with it.   It was kind of creepy.

     We hung out for about a month and then it happened.   My mom was out someplace for the night so I had the place to myself.   I made sure I had a condom and invited the girl over.   I started in with the “backrub” ice-breaker and things moved forward quickly.   I was excited.   Nervous.   I didn’t know if it would work.   We went to my room and sat on the bed and we took each other’s clothes off.   I’d never put a condom on.   I figured it out and we were on our way.   We went through the motions in missionary in almost complete silence aside from our breathing and the rustling of the sheets and the sound of our skins brushing against each other.   I was numb.   My dick was like a foreign object attached to my body.   Like the way that the inside of a pimple feels like it’s something that is inside of you, but not part of you, which causes you to worry that spot until you finally get the dead, infected cells out of your over-burdened pore.   Like an ingrown hair or a scab.   Maybe that’s what sexual desire is most similar to.   Like scab you can’t resist picking at or an itch you can’t resist scratching.

     I was so focused on the idea of finally having sex that I wasn’t able to relax enough to enjoy it.   I don’t remember if she was enjoying herself.   I was too focused on what I was doing, and the whole thing was pretty awkward.   After a couple hours she had probably dried out because of the condom and when she couldn’t stand anymore she asked me to stop.   I thought I did a good job.   I didn’t come right away.   I didn’t come at all.   I outlasted her, so I guess I won.   So this is what sex is.   It all seemed so over-rated.   The relative importance so inflated to the actuality of the event.

     Girls and I ran hot and cold in high school.   There were dry spells and wet spells.

     In high school, girls and sex were very confusing.   The girls I would go steady with wouldn’t have sex with me and the girls I had sex with wouldn’t go steady with me.   That was just how it was.

     Capricious youth.

     That two hour marathon the first time?   That was misleading.

     Sex would last either two hours or two minutes.   I didn’t really find my stride until college.

     I remember once I had sex with my girl-friend’s friend because she was willing and easy and my girl-friend wasn’t giving it up.   The friend of the girlfriend came over the house and after an hour or so we both knew what was up.   Kissing and whatnot.   She wouldn’t take her shirt off.   She protested that it was wrong, I agreed, but then we did it anyway.   I got the condom on and got my dick in her and three strokes in I blew it.   Awkward and embarrassing for everyone in the room.   She went on to date my friend Dan and then ratted me out to the girlfriend when I started dating my friend Dan’s friend at the same time.   I wasn’t being an a*****e.   I liked them both.   I wasn’t an a*****e, I was just a coward.

     Funny thing about that.   Karma’s a b***h.   I stuck with the new girl for a year and she didn’t put out either.   Lots of fooling around, but she’d always say, “Manyana…”, in this coyly lilting way.   It got so I hated the f*****g word.   She wouldn’t put out, but she loved it when I went down on her, but she wouldn’t reciprocate.   Something about a pushy ex-boyfriend and maybe some rape, maybe something weird with her dad who was a preacher, but she never told me anything straight about it.   Just lots of listening to Tori Amos and Ani Difranco and the Indigo Girls.   But f**k that noise.   Recipricocity is key.   On our year anniversary I gave her the ultimatum.   Either she put out or I was done.   She went all frantic and sobbed like I’d never heard before.   She cried all the f*****g time, but never like that.   I had to lay in bed with a throbbing hard on, my underwear all sticky with pre-cum, with her cooze juice drying on my face and listen to her wail in the bathroom.   What a bummer.

     I heard about her every now and then from our mutual friends.   Turns out she went round the bend and started having multiple personalities and married a guy that had multiple personalities too.   That must have been f*****g interesting.   I wonder if it was like being polyamorous?   I thought I recognized her in the passenger seat of a car when I was working as a security officer at a parking garage.   I was in the booth and her husband pulled up and she was sitting there looking like a ghost.   Like a doughy phosphorescently pale mannequin.   They drove off and I never saw her again.   That’s life.

 

     High school was crazy.   There was a lot of underage drinking whenever we could get near enough to booze.   There was a lot of pot smoked, but I didn’t get stoned until I went to college.   Hometown pot was just flake.   Dust.   I didn’t see a bud until I went to college.

     I spent a lot of time in detention because I was always late to school.

     I never was a morning person.

     Eventually if I was going to be late I didn’t bother going in at all and I almost didn’t graduate I missed so many days senior year but they relented and granted me the diploma I earned.

     What were they gonna do?   Try to make me repeat twelfth grade?   Yeah right!

     The summer between high school and college I learned a lot.

     I ran with a fast crowd and you had to be quick or you’d be left behind.

     I worked at a Taco Bell, because, like all of my friends, I didn’t have any job experience to speak of.

     I worked a lot of hours because I was willing to stay late and close.

     The base pay was s**t minimum wage, but I had this great trick.

     I would tell people the total for their order when they came up to the window and they’d hand me some money.    Then when their food was ready I’d lean out the window and give them their food and shoot them a big smile and say, “Have a nice night!”.    They were so hungry or stoned that they’d drive off.

     Without their change.

     Hot food is a great distraction for a hungry or stoned person.

     It worked like a charm.

     No one ever rolls up to the drive thru with exact change.   And if anyone was smart enough to say something about their change, I’d put on a real tired expression, take off my purple hat and rub my hand over my scalp and say something about it being a busy night or about being tired.   They’d shoot me a suspicious look, but no one ever asked to talk to the manager and I’d remember to not try the same trick on that person the next time they came through.

     The first time it happened by accident and I had five and change left over at the end of the night, but once I had my routine down I was doubling my wages each night.   Not too shabby.   I had it down so smooth that even the idiots I worked with had no idea what was going on.

     I worked with this girl that had a nose ring and long hair with one long braid in it.

     That summer I was pretty pissed off about a lot of petty little things and I worked out a lot.

     I was up to seven hundred push-ups a day and at least as many sit-ups.

     I was a f*****g monster.

     The girl and I flirted back and forth until finally one night she asks me if I want to go back to where she lived and watch some movies.   I think and say, “Sure.   Why not?”.   I’m not thinking anything’s going to happen.   I was your “average frustrated chump”.   I mean, think about it.   Look what I had to deal with in high school.   I wouldn’t even know what to do with a good piece of a*s.

     So we’re at her house in this living room / den kind of thing that was apart from the main house, but connected by a small enclosed glass corridor.   We decide we’re going to watch ‘Suburbia’.   The punk rock classic, not the lame “quirky comedy” with Giovanni Ribisi in it.   Five minutes in and she’s all over me.   We’re rolling around on the floor and when she gets on top she says the sexiest thing I had heard up till then.   “I would so f**k you if I didn’t have my f*****g period right now.”   Not very hot by today’s standard, but at the time it was pretty f*****g sexy.   None of my hometown high school girls had any s**t-talking skills so anything was a welcome change.   A few days later she invites me over again and she follows through.   We f**k on the furniture and on the floor.   We f**k each other until we’ve got carpet burns on our knees and elbows and our genitals are red and raw.   We f**k until dawn and her parent’s leave for work.  Then she sneaks me into the house and up to her bedroom.   We f**k a little more, then we fall asleep.   Then when we wake up, we f**k some more.   We kept up that routine for most of the summer.   It was pretty hot.   She had a little cardboard box filled with sex props.   Handcuffs and warming massage lotions and whatnot.   We didn’t get around to using half of that s**t we were so eager to get to the sex.

     One time she handcuffed me.   I didn’t know what the deal was.   It was new for me so I just went with it.   She said, “How does that feel?”.   I said, “Fine.   I guess.   Now what?”.   I think she had a couple ideas but she didn’t think I was ready for them and she was probably right, so she just took the cuffs off.   Every now and then during sex she would turn over onto her stomach and squeeze her legs tight so it was difficult to get into her from behind.   Looking back, she probably wanted me to put it in her a*s, but, like I said, I wasn’t exactly a sexual expert so I’ll chalk that up to woulda shoulda coulda.

     At the end of the summer she came over to the house I lived in with my mom and step-dad.   They were out at work so we had the place to ourselves.   She told me that this guy, Victor, that she was in love with and that she would do anything for was coming back from the west coast and she was gonna have to break things off with me.   It was probably the only time a girl has ever been straightforward with me about something like that.   I said something like, “Okay.   There’s nothing I can do about it, so, whatever.   Will we still be friends?”   She smiled and kissed me and threw me a goodbye f**k.   It was the only time it was kind of sad and romantic with her for me.   She got dressed and left and I never saw her again.   So much for friendship.    

     In college I didn’t have any problems with women.

     It could have been the college.   It had a popular nursing and educational program so there were a lot of girls there.

     Go ahead write that down.

     I majored in psychology and often I was the only guy in the class.

     Write that down too.

     “Majored in psychology.”

     I developed this system of staring as flirting.

     If I saw a girl I liked I’d just watch her until she looked in my direction and we made eye contact.   Then I’d smile and give her the “chin-up” nod and pretend to be reading or whatever.

     After I did that a few times I’d sidle up to her in line at the dining hall and say something like, “Hey.   I’ve seen you around.   What’s your deal?”

     Either they’d shut me down or they’d let me talk at them.

     Either they had a boyfriend or we made plans to hang out.

     Either they were having it or they weren’t having it.

     I knew that if they weren’t having it, they just weren’t having it, so I’d laugh it off and move on.

     I just played the averages.

     I figured if I flirted with enough girls, one or two was bound to bite.

     It worked.   I don’t know how, but it did.

     I pretended I was unafraid and I guess to a certain extent I was.

     I figured if I talked them up and they gave me the cold shoulder then I’d never have to bother with them again, but if I never talked to them I’d always have this unrelieved frustration.

     I remember that first year, running five girls at once.   It was a scheduling nightmare.

     I’d kick out the girl that slept over the night before and go to class.   Maybe I’d get a call to my beeper and I’d return the call and I’d spread a little afternoon delight.   I’d have plans for dinner in the dining hall with some girl and then we’d go back to my dorm room and we’d fool around, and if she didn’t want to come across, I’d make up some excuse and tell her we should hang out sometime soon and I’d walk her to the door, and when the latch clicked I’d call up another girl and have her over for a few hours.   And maybe she’d stay the night and maybe she wouldn’t.   And maybe a different girl would come tapping on my window at two in the morning, drunk, coming home from the bars, and want to come in, and I’d have to work around her in stage whispers, trying not to wake up the girl that was all naked and curled up in a ball under the blanket in my bed.   Maybe that happened once or twice.   I wasn’t an a*****e, I was just trying to have the best time with the most girls I could without hurting anyone’s feelings.   Maybe I was making up for all of that long-term relationship without sex bullshit from high school, but it didn’t feel like I was making up for anything at the time.   Actually it felt pretty f*****g awesome and if I could’ve I probably would’ve spent the rest of my life that way.

     But in a community as small as a college, word gets around, and none of the girls was really interested in being part of a harem.   So I ended up with one or two that I would see steady.   But none of them lasted through the summer breaks, going home to hook up with their hometown sweethearts.

     But then again, each year there were incoming freshmen and graduating seniors so it all balanced out in a comfortable equilibrium.

     My first year steady had a boyfriend who was at a military academy in New Hampshire.

     She wanted to be the only one and I told her I was okay with that, but she had to break things off with her boyfriend.   She said she would when she went up to be his date at a formal dance at the military academy.   She didn’t break up with him.   She didn’t have the heart.   She fucked him and came back, thinking she could just carry on with me.   I kind of respect that.   At least she didn’t lie about it.   She was trying to do the right thing in her own way.   I told her that we could still hang out, but I’d still see other people.

     I started dating a different girl and I fell in love.   At least what I thought was love at the time.   She was beautiful.   Naturally corn-silk blonde with dirty-blonde roots.   Ice blue eyes.   Long legs and round firm D-cup breasts.   I bet you’re thinking I’m making this up but I’m not.   Okay.   She had some crooked teeth.   And she smoked camels, so her breath always smelled like cheap cigarettes.   And she was anorexic.   And she had this voice that was like a breathy Betty Boop which could be really annoying sometimes.   So she wasn’t perfect.   But she wore a leather motorcycle jacket and black jeans.   I wanted her and I acquired her and I told the first girl that I was going to go steady with the second.

     The first girl attempted suicide.   She took a whole bottle of her medication and locked herself in a shower stall with nothing but a razor and she wouldn’t come out.   Her room-mates called me.

     What was I supposed to do?   I went over.

     Let me give you some back story.

     Some more back story.   Just in case I haven’t lost you yet,

     She had some strange medical condition.   She had abnormally low blood pressure.   She’d be standing there and then her eyes would roll up under her eyelashes, which would flutter like a person having a seizure.   Then… poof!    She’d collapse in a heap on the floor.

      It only happened once a month or so, and usually she was around people who knew what the deal was so they’d keep an eye on her and keep people from running over and practicing their CPR on her.

      Once my room-mate and I were walking to the dining hall first thing in the morning and we saw a lump that looked like a garbage bag on the sidewalk in the distance.   When we came up on it, sure enough, it was my girlfriend, passed out cold on the sidewalk in her winter coat and backpack.   We couldn’t just leave her there, so I grabbed her under the armpits, and my room-mate grabbed her ankles and we carried her back to the lobby of the dorm.   We must have been quite a sight and someone must have seen it, because someone called security and a uniformed campus security guy showed up.   The guard really wanted to call the paramedics, but we kept insisting that she does this about once a month.   That if you give her a few minutes she’d come around.   You just had to give her some breathing room.   Plus she told me she got really pissed when someone called an ambulance, because they’d show up and she’d never go with them and sometimes the ambulance tried to charge her a fine since they thought they rushed over there for nothing.

     So the medications raised her blood pressure and kept the blood in her brain and kept her from falling over all the time.   But when she tried to overdose on them, all they did was make her retain a huge amount of water, so she bloated up like a year’s worth of premenstrual water weight at once.   So she was dumped and depressed and bloated like a hippopotamus.   And there was nothing I could do about it.   If she wanted to kill herself, in my opinion, that was her decision to make.    I wasn’t going to kick in the shower stall door and get soaked and maybe accidentally diced up by a razor trying to keep her from deciding her own destiny.

     It was all for naught anyway.   I dated the blonde till the summer then she dropped me after the first night at my first apartment on my own.   My car died and I couldn’t get a job and I was a month behind on rent all summer long.   Women just weren’t an option.   So I decided to do without.

     My summer room-mates were supposed to stick with the apartment through the next school year, but my room-mate’s girlfriend flaked and dropped out.   And my room-mate had a free room at the college because of a scholarship, so he took it.   I understand, but it left me in a tough spot.   I got a one-room apartment in the heart of the city.   There was no heat.   No hot water.   Not bad in the fall, but in the winter it got really damp and cold and I got really sick.   Cold water showers and no heat.   It was usually colder inside than it was outside.   I would sleep with the blanket over my head in the hope that the heat from my breath would stay under the covers and keep me warm.

     All I ate for a semester was a large coffee and a bagel each day, because it was all I could afford.

     I got so sick I had to drop all my classes.   I probably should have been hospitalized.

     I got crash financial aid and managed to get a dorm room for the spring semester.

     It was close.   I thought I had hit bottom.

     I had no idea what the bottom was.

 

     Since the summer was unkind, I decided not to bother with women.

     Not that I got into guys.

     That whole collegiate experimentation with homosexuality?

     Yeah, I skipped that whole thing.

     That whole not bothering with women thing?   That didn’t last long.

     I was hanging out with some friends from the theater department.

     You want to talk about ambiguous sexuality, let’s talk college theater.

     Everyone at the table except me was gay or bisexual or omnivorous or whatever.

     Later on I had a buddy that worked tech crew for the shows and he got me a couple gigs.

     That s**t was great.

     You got paid to hang out with the prettiest, craziest, sexiest girls on campus and all of the male actors were gay.    Being a techie was like being rough trade up in there.

     I fucked around my fair share.

     Anyway, all of the gender-bending theater kids were insisting that everyone was a little bit bisexual.

     They had this stupid f*****g game where they insisted that you had to pick a celebrity of the same sex to have sex with.

      They wouldn’t f*****g let it go, so I finally relented and said, “Sean Connery.   But just cuddling.”

      Of course, being the over-dramatic nutbags they were they took that and ran with it.

      I finally had enough and broke it down for them.

      “Look.   The idea of having someone’s c**k in my mouth doesn’t make my mouth water.   I don’t get turned on by imagining the business end of my dick in any guy’s mouth.   I’m not really big on anal sex and that goes double for guys.   And I know I don’t want any guy f*****g me in the a*s, so I guess that pretty much wraps that up.   Doesn’t it?”

     That served to shut them up and I’ve stuck with that line ever since.

 

     So I knew I wasn’t gay, but women just seemed like more trouble than they were worth.

     A little bit of happiness and when you least expected it… BANG!

     They’d drop you like a lump of hot dogshit.

     Then you’d find out that they’d been f*****g your friends or some other dude.

     Why bother?

     I jerked off five times a day and I knew what I liked.

     I could get myself off in five minutes flat.

     I never had to buy anyone dinner and I never had to say, “I love you.”.

     That was good enough for me.

     I was friends with the room-mate of my ex-girlfriend who tried to kill herself.

     We’d hang out.   I didn’t think anything of it.

     I was bitter.

     I guess jerking off five times a day while swimming in a sea of girls that want nothing to do with you will do that to you.

     I was going through that whole philosophical freefall that trips up some college students.

     Bumper sticker nihilism.

     Taking art classes and film classes and Eastern philosophy classes.

     Searching for meaning.

     Defining themselves.

     Questioning authority.

     Rejecting everything.

     The last thing I needed in my life was a woman.

     I didn’t have any room in my life.

     I was so full of myself.

 

     As I said, I didn’t think anything of it.

     We’d spend a lot of time buddying around.

     Going to poetry readings at cafés, but at that time it was called “spoken word”.

     Don’t judge.   I know.

     Lame shallow pretension masquerading as depth and sophistication.

     Bullshit armor a foot thick.

     Clove cigarettes and black clothes.

     “Whatever.”

     She had a boyfriend.   Then another.   Because I wasn’t thinking about her as a woman we became close friends.   And since we were close friends and boy and girl we fell in love with each other.   At least that’s what I thought at the time.

     One of the most intense memories of my life.   We’re listening to classical music, Beethoven, and kissing.   The overture for the ninth symphony comes up, and scoring romantic scenes with the overture for the ninth is such a cliché that we both open our eyes and when our eyes meet we both break out laughing and without saying anything we both agreed to quit making out until the overture is over.

     She wasn’t the prettiest girl I ever dated.   She didn’t have the nicest body.   Her breasts pancaked against her chest when they weren’t being held together in a bra and her vaginal lips had a weird bluish tint.   But I realized that the best of all possible worlds was being in love with your best friend.

     She dropped me.

     Like I said, she had a boyfriend.   I was better looking but he was a nice guy.

     She wasn’t going to break up with him and I was still sleeping with any girl that was willing.

     I figured that if she had her boyfriend then I should have my girlfriends.

     Petty resentment-laden bullshit.

     Things just kind of unwound.

     I took it pretty hard.

     How hard?

     Everything I did reminded me of her.

     We were so in tune without making any effort to get in tune that we liked all of the same things.

     So in a surprisingly brief period of time, everything I enjoyed in life had turned bitter and rotten.

     Stale and unprofitable.

     I’d send her letters and gifts in the mail.

     Eventually she told me to cut the s**t.

     I wasn’t crazy enough to keep it up so that she’d have to take out a restraining order on me.

     But I was close.

     I figured if she wasn’t having it, she wasn’t having it, but maybe some day she’d change her mind and realize how perfect we were for each other.

     I couldn’t sleep so I’d drive by her house at night.

     I wouldn’t stop, but I’d see her car in the driveway and I’d be overwhelmed with emotion and I’d have to pull over into the parking lot of the restaurant at the end of the street and push the heels of my hands into my eyes, making black stars bloom until the desperate longing subsided enough for me to drive away like I had committed some crime and was driving the getaway car.

     I thought about her every day for five years and every other day for the next five years after that.

     I spent a year asexually.

     Girls were just humans with higher voices and nicer hair and curvier bodies and a wider variety of clothing options.

     It’s not that girls didn’t flirt with me, but I just shut them down cold.

     I wanted no part of their coy bullshit.

     I went all astronaut / 1950s television detective.

     It was all, “Yes miss.” and “Yes ma’am.”.

     And every night of that year I was in such emotional turmoil that I would try to cry myself to sleep, but I couldn’t cry, so I just laid in the darkness, looking into the darkness, keening like a wounded animal, not sleeping until exhaustion overwhelmed me.

     I lost weight.

     I didn’t eat because I was never hungry.

     There was only one thing in the whole world that I wanted and since I couldn’t have it I didn’t want anything.

     I smoked cigarettes like it was my job.

     Smoking causes cancer?    Good.

     How long does it take?   How many cigarettes do I have to smoke?

     I was looking for a reason to kill myself.

     Just to end the endless suffering.

     Being diagnosed with cancer seemed as good a reason as any.

    

     This went on for years.

     I was a terrible person to be in a relationship with.

     Maybe just a terrible person in general.

     I was one hundred percent confrontational one hundred percent of the time.

     I was not afraid of death, so I was not afraid of anything.

     A man without fear is a fool, but he is also invulnerable.

     Everyone is immortal until they die.

     That which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

     Except, of course, the thing which kills you, which just f*****g kills you.

     If I kill a mosquito, sucking the blood from me, I feel no remorse.

     Mosquitoes don’t go to heaven.

     Why should humans be any different?

     Who decide that humans were a superior species to mosquitoes?

     All we are is smart monkeys.   Tool-using monkeys with big f*****g brains.

     But not big enough to get over racism and homophobia and religious differences.

     Just big enough to realize ourselves as a part of, yet simultaneously separate from our environment.

     Just big enough to realize that there is the self, and there is the not-self.

     Just big enough to outsmart ourselves.

 

     Nothing is permanent.

     Matter can neither be created nor destroyed.

     On a long enough timeline nothing matters.

     On a long enough timeline any event becomes insignificant in relation to the whole.

     The light from some of the stars which seem to shine at night comes from stars which died before the beginning of human history.

     What’s so great about being alive?

 

     Ten years after I ran into her again.

     She was bartending at the lightweight pseudo-fetish club that I went to every Wednesday.

     She made eye contact and waved at me and I beelined right over to her, ignoring the blonde girl in the lingerie that I had just broken up with who was trying to give me a ration of s**t.   I was talking with her and it was like I was alive again and all of the despair in my life drained away.   The blonde came up behind me and was poking me in the shoulder saying, “That was rude!”, but I brushed her hand off me and then slapped it off me and shot her a look that made her turn on her heel and stomp off in a fuss.

     Whatever.   She’d be back.   Stupid cooze.

     Whenever the girl I had loved so intensely came around she’d smile and we’d talk.

     She was working, so we only had a couple sentences at a time.

     I asked if we could hang out.   If I could call her.   Not like boyfriend and girlfriend, but it would mean so much to me if we could just hang out every now and then.   I would have done anything to get her to agree to be in my life in any way.

     She said she had a boyfriend.  She said he was, “spiffy”.

     I said it didn’t matter.   He could come along!

     It wasn’t working.   She gradually resumed the expression she had when she told me to stop sending her stuff in the mail.

     I said, “Fine.”, and I took a card from my wallet.

     “This is my card.   I thought about you every day for five years and every other day for five years after that.   There’s nothing I can do that will change your mind either way, but if you ever decided to call, it would mean the world to me.”   I put the card down on the bar and picked up my beer and walked to the other side of the club.

     I didn’t sleep for a couple days after that.  When I finally passed out, I slept for, like, twelve hours.

     When I woke up I felt better.

     I had said what I had wanted to tell her for ten years and now my love for her was hers to deal with.

     Let her lose some f*****g sleep for a change.

     I had the blonde in the lingerie over and I fucked her like a porn star until she begged me to stop because she was so sore that when she came it hurt.

     I may never be able to love someone that intensely ever again, but I wasn’t going to let that ruin my life.

     I hadn’t killed myself and it was time to live.

     But in those few days something about me had changed.

     Metamorphosis is a cliché, but I’d like to hear your suggestions.

     I knew that my heart had been broken and would never heal.

     I knew that I could feel lust and compassion and sympathy but I would never love another woman.

     I knew intuitively that you only get one shot at something that burned that brightly and seemed like it could last forever.

     So there you go.

     Even someone as alien and abnormal and fucked up as I have become can love.

     It doesn’t excuse my actions, but maybe it explains them.

 

     It took a girl almost literally throwing herself at me to break my year of self-imposed celibacy.

     I’m in the dining hall and my friend Joe comes up with this redhead.

     She looks a little heavyset but she’s got blue eyes and a nice face.

     But remember I’m Mister Hate right now so I don’t make a fuss over her.

     We talk a while and she invites me to go to a Beltane celebration.

     I figure, what the f**k, so I agree to go.

     She picks me up and we go out to this Beltane celebration.

     It’s out in the country on some old farm.

     There’s a bunch of people in renaissance garb and cloaks.   You know tights and poet shirts with big poofy sleeves and v-collars with a rawhide lace across them.   And everyone had long stringy hair.

     It was a f*****g joke.

     The only cool person was this old dude that everyone said was a druid priest.   But he was really drunk and I didn’t really get a chance to talk with him because he was surrounded by crazy looking people in cloaks.

     Night falls and there’s a pit and a big old bonfire and there are people in cloaks dancing in circles around it.

     All day long people kept giving me knowing glances whenever the redhead introduced me to them but I ignored them.   The glances, that is.   I wasn’t planning on making anything big about the outing.

     It’s time to go to bed and the girl and I have a tent all to ourselves.

     I’m used to sleeping in my clothes, so I just take off my shoes and lay down on my back with my hands behind my head.

     The girl says she’s going to get comfortable and she takes off her poet shirt and crushed velvet skirt.

     I thought she was overweight.   Instead she has huge tits and big hips.

     A real hourglass figure.

     She climbs into the sleeping bag and I spoon her.

     I start rubbing my hands over her body and she cranes her neck around and starts kissing me.

     I get my fingers into her and she reaches back and puts a hand into my pants and starts jerking me off.

     She moans and shakes when she cums on my fingers and she takes her hand off of my dick and out of my pants.   Guess I have to wait till next time for mine.

     We go to sleep and the next day is pretty uneventful.

     I catch a lot of knowing looks again but whatever.   They probably figure we fucked, but f**k them.   All of those a*s-pirates can go get fucked.

     We make plans to hang out a week later.

     She comes over to my dorm room and blah blah blah we fucked.

     It’s always great to fantasize about great big firm tits, but finally getting them is kind of disappointing.

     Anything over a D cup is a waste and this chick had to custom order her bras because they didn’t carry her size in stores.

     She did this thing where she’d pretend to pass out during sex because it was so good, then she’d gasp and look at me like she didn’t know who I was or where she was.   F**k it.   I didn’t care.   I just kept f*****g her.

     One day she shows up and we get into it and when she takes off her shirt there’s a tattoo on her tit that wasn’t there last time.   Her personal sigil which kind of looked like the Mortal Kombat logo.   I’m all like, “What the f**k is that?”.   She replies, “It’s a tattoo,” with a silent “dummy!”.   I say, “I know it’s a tattoo, but how the f**k did that happen?   Doesn’t that kind of come up in conversation?   Like, ‘Hey.   How was your week?   Great!   I got a tattoo on my tit!’’?

     She just looked right through me.   I fucked her anyway.

     The next week she shows up with the other tit tattooed with the Star of Solomon.

     That was it.

     I stopped returning her calls and I sent her a letter telling her I was breaking up with her because I knew if I broke up with her in person she’d freak out and probably chase me around the house with a kitchen knife.

 

     I saw her years later and her a*s was f*****g huge and her face had gotten all jowly.

     It was at a birthday party for the model-quality blonde I was f*****g at the time.

     The best revenge is living well.

 

     Like I said, I was a terrible person to be in a relationship with.

     I wasn’t sadistic.

     At least not at first.

     I just didn’t play the games that men and women play with each other.

     I’d never flatter a girl that was fishing for compliments.

     If a girl was flirting with someone else while I was around I wouldn’t get jealous, I’d just leave and let her figure it out.

     If a girl said she loved me I’d never say it back.

     I wasn’t going to compromise my integrity by lying and saying I loved.

     I knew what love felt like and what I felt with them wasn’t love.

 

     Every now and then I’d get what I wanted.

     There was a hot blonde with blue-grey eyes that dressed all punk and sexy.

     She played keyboards in a ska band and I thought that was pretty hot.

     I talked her up and it took a year, but I was in.

     It was great because a guy that fucked me over called her when I was over and I got on the phone and talked with him.   I was cool as a cucumber and I could feel him seething through the phone lines.

     F**k you.   I win.   You lose.   Deal.

     When we’d f**k in her dorm room she made the best genuine sex sounds.

     She had a small p***y and I have a big dick.

     I mean bigger than average.

     If the average penis is five inches long and I’m swinging seven then I call that big.

     I’ve gotten a few complaints that it’s too thick and only a couple complaints that it’s not long enough.

     I can do faster and harder, but deeper just isn’t on the menu.

     I’m no John Holmes m**********r, but God has been kind.

     I was famous.    I could have had any girl in that suite.

     Even the college experimenting lesbos thought I had a magic dick.

     We’d f**k, like, three times a day.   Every day.

     She started getting into ecstasy and she got me into it and we’d f**k on ecstasy.

     We’d f**k for hours and hours.   Taking big chugs from water bottles and eating candy and dried fruit while f*****g each other raw.

     But then the summer came and she came over one day with a bee in her bonnet and wanted to know where the relationship was going.    I wasn’t going to lie to her.   I said I didn’t know and that was it.

     Next semester I find out she was a total f*****g w***e.   She fucked this guy that I thought she picked me over.   She double-teamed her high-school sweetheart with her friend who the guy dated after her.   She fucked her room-mate’s boyfriend.   Everyone was f*****g everyone else and I didn’t even get a three-way out of the deal.   It kind of made me feel dirty.   Not that I didn’t get some on the side, but she made me seem true-blue in comparison.

 

     The next year I hooked up with a girl one of my gay theater friends introduced me to.

     He asked me nicely not to f**k her, but f**k him, if it wasn’t me it would have been someone else.

     I was into this thing where I would draw all over girls with hi-liters and then put them under fluorescent black-lites and take pictures of it.

     I don’t know where I was going with that, but I thought it was pretty f*****g cool and it gave me yet another excuse to talk to chicks.

     I had the she-friend over the house to model and I really wasn’t planning on getting fresh with her.

     She took off her clothes and she had on a lacy black bra and panty set.

     She had a nice body.   Well, nice in its own way.

     She ran cross-country in high-school and the dining center food hadn’t taken its toll.   She had washboard abs and leg muscles that writhed under her skin like the muscles of a snake under snakeskin.

     Not much in the tit department, but then again I’m not really a tit-man.

     I like a nice firm round set, but it’s not sine quo non.

     And no, she wasn’t a blonde.   Her hair was a shocking natural day-glo orange.

     And yes, the carpet matched the drapes.

     I inked her up and we took a set of photos.

     A couple rolls of film of her in different weird positions.

     She took a shower and washed off the hi-liter and she came back in her bra and panties and I guess having someone do what I did to her was pretty sexy because we started making out.   Well, I wanted it and she wanted it, so we did it.   She told me to be gentle.   That it had been awhile.   Yeah right.

     I wasn’t unnecessarily rough, but I gave her a good long ride.   She was crying and clawing my back and biting my shoulder.   But she never told me to stop.   She was a real trooper.

     After it was over, I guess she wasn’t completely traumatized.   She was chipper and she complimented me on my “girth”.   We just naturally fell into a relationship.   I was working full-time and going to school full-time so I’d usually see her for a couple hours in the afternoon.   I’d come over, we’d have sex and then we’d take a nap, and then I’d have to take off for work.   We did that shtick for a whole school year.

     After a while she started getting funny about sex.   She’d have to masturbate before we had sex to get in the mood, then she’d hop on and ride me like a jockey heading for glory until she came a couple times and squeezed me to orgasm with her insides.   It was weird, but it’s not the kind of thing you stop to talk about.   Then things got even weirder.   She’d start crying after about an hour of sex and push my chest till I was far enough away that my dick popped out of her, then she’d turn over onto her stomach.   I figured maybe she wanted it in her a*s, so I tried that but that just wasn’t going to happen.   I’d get it worked in till the head was almost all the way in then she’d moan and turn over on her side and curl into the fetal position and just sob.   Not just once, I mean, this went on for at least a month.   Again, we never really talked about it.   She was crazy.   I was f*****g someone that was crazy.   Even if we did talk about it, it probably wouldn’t’ve made any sense.

     Then came the summer.   The death knell of collegiate affairs.   She went home for the summer.   It was only a half hour away, but she only came up to see me, like, once a week.   I knew her libido was more intense than that so I figured something was going on.   So one time when she came up I put the spurs to her, and while she was in the shower I checked her cell phone.   The calls to me were mixed in with calls to her high-school sweetheart, Steve or Dave or John or whatever.   So I called him.

     He answered, “Hello?”.

     I said his name, then, “I think she’s seeing us both at the same time so we might as well figure out if we’re cool with that.”

     “Who is this?   Why the f**k should I believe you?”

     “Well, smart guy, I’m calling you from your girl’s cell phone and she’s naked in my shower right now, if you really want I can get her on the phone, but she’d probably be soaking wet and pissed.”

     He took a minute to think about things.   It was obviously a bit of a shock.   “What are you, some kind of a*****e?”

     “Look, dude.   I don’t have any problem with you.   Our girl’s playing both of us, and from where I’m at she’s going to have to make a choice.   Either she sticks with me or she sticks with you.   Either way I know I’m not going to trust her anymore.”

     He started swearing.   Remember when Malcolm X intimated that swearing is the recourse of the ignorant man who does not know how to express himself?   Well…

     So I just hung up.

     The girl came out of the shower and she could tell by the look on my face that something was up.

     “I called your boyfriend.”

     She just narrowed her eyes.

     “I told him I thought that you were playing us both for fools.   He didn’t believe me and he didn’t have much else constructive to say.   I told him that I was going to tell you that you’d have to pick and stick with one or the other of us but I wasn’t going to time-share your vagina anymore.”

     She picked up the phone and checked to see if I was bluffing, which, of course, I wasn’t.

     She shot me a look that would’ve sterilized a weaker man and she gave me the silent treatment with a few nasty looks for good measure while she got dressed and got her s**t together, punching it into her oversized purse.

     When she strutted towards the door, I said, “Tell me how that works out.”, and she slammed the door behind her.   I never heard from her again.

     Whatever.

     Fool me once, shame on you.   Fool me twice, and I’ll stab you in the f*****g face.

 

     The next year was back to masturbation and solitary refinement.

     I was too goddamned busy with work and school to talk up any girls.

     That’s probably not entirely true, but I had been burned again, so I wasn’t really very impressed with the fairness of the fairer sex.

     My room-mate, a quirky kid that always wore a fedora and thick-black-framed glasses, had a friend.

     I had run into his friend a few years back.   I was stubbornly walking from my mom’s house to the bank because the selfish b***h wouldn’t give me a ride.  So I thought, “F**k her.”, and set off on foot.   When I got to the bank this girl with shortish curlyish brown hair and cat’s eye glasses that I thought I recognized from the punk rock club scene was behind me in line.   I didn’t say anything because I was in “f**k everybody” mode.   I was walking away from the bank and she pulled up and asked me if I wanted a ride.   I might have been pissed, but I wasn’t oblivious.   I got in and we made small talk.   I asked her if I could smoke and she asked if she could have one.   I smoked cloves and she hadn’t really had many of them.

     Now it’s years later and she’s still smoking my brand.  So every time she put one in her mouth and sucked, well, there’s something to be said about that.   She said she was exhausted and she wanted to lay down and take a nap.   My friend replied to the implied hint that he had some work to do.   I said she could just crash in my room as long as she didn’t f**k with anything and locked the door if she left before I got back.   I left the door unlocked and left.   F**k it.   I didn’t care.   If anything was fucked with I’d just take it out on my room-mate for having a fucked up klepto lady-friend.

      I came back and my room-mate was gone and my door is unlocked and the girl is in my bed, under the covers, and I can tell that she’s only wearing a bra on the top half, and I look down and her jeans are in a heap on the floor.   Somewhat surprised, I recompose myself and say, “Hey.”.    She replied, “Hey.”.   I said, “You mind if I climb up there?   I’m kind of tired myself.”.   She thinks for a second and says, “Fine.”.   I ask, “Want to watch something?”.   She says, “Sure.”.   I put in my VHS tape of David Lynch’s ‘Fire Walk with Me’.   That movie’s like Spanish Fly.   It’s subliminally sexual and hypnotically erotic.   So first I’m laying on top of the covers on my back.   Then I turn over and spoon her and I’m smelling the back of her neck.   Then she turns over and kisses me.   From there we go for glory, making out hardcore.   She flips back the covers and I slide into second.   I take off her bra and she wrestles with my fly.   She’s jerking me off and making out with me and rubbing her legs together.   I rub between her legs over her panties, then flip them aside and ease a couple fingers into her and she jerks me off faster and f***s my fingers, breathing faster, and I’m hard as a f*****g steel rod.   She pushes my pants down off of my hips and I tug her panties off and throw them on the floor.   I’m kneeling at the foot of the bed and she’s lying on her back on the bed and she asks, “Do you have any condoms?”.   I shrug and look off to my right, over my shoulder, then look back at her.

     She asks, “Are you clean?”.

     I reply, “As a whistle, baby.”.

     She sits up and looks at my dick, giving it the once over looking for herpes scars or whatever, then grabs me and pulls me down and we’re in it.   It’s good.   She’s into it.   I’m into it.   The sighing and moaning and stage-whisper swearing are all falling into place where they should.   I put her through her paces and she looks up at me with squinted eyes and says, “I want you to cum.”.   I say, “In or on, babe?”.   She says, “Cum inside me.”, so I pick up the pace and clench my eyes and go to that special place in my head and f**k her until I cum.   It’s great.   I can feel her squeezing me from the inside, squeezing my dick in synch with the rhythm of my orgasm.   I slap her big, firm, round a*s and let myself pop out and I roll off to the side, resting on my arms behind my head, feeling smug about a job well done.

     She asks, “Do you have a shirt I can use?”.

     I ask, “To wear?”.

     She gives me a look and I roll over onto my side and fish around in the laundry until I come up with a black shirt that I know doesn’t smell too awful.   She takes the shirt and tucks it between her legs and then lays back down on her side and snuggles up against me.

     I ask, “Are you okay with that, babe?   I mean are you on birth control or something?”.

     She answers, “No.   I’m pregnant.”.

     I take a second to think about that.

     She says, “Is that a problem?”

     I say, “Nope.   As long as it’s not mine.”

     Then we go out for some Chinese food.

     We carried on like that for about a trimester, then she decided to give it another shot with the father.

     That would have been simple enough, except that the father was another friend of my room-mate that I knew from back in the day but didn’t much like back then, but he grew up to be tolerable and he had a pretty good little punk rock band together that needed a bass player.   I happened to be an excellent bass player so I joined up, so I was playing bass for the band of the guy who impregnated the girl I was f*****g three times a day.   Or I was f*****g the mother of the unborn child of the guy whose band I was playing bass in.   There are a few ways you can phrase it, but no matter how you shuffle the words, it pretty much meant the same thing.   But I was good at keeping secrets and keeping people separate in my mind, and I was never quite sure if she ever told him the subplot of the story.

     She had the kid, a little girl.   Things didn’t work out with the father so she called me up and asked me over.   Having the kid around was weird.   The three of us would go to the supermarket to get stuff for dinner.   People would look at the three of us like we were a happy little family unit.

     People would say to me, “Aw, she looks just like you!”.

     And I would just smirk smile at them and think to myself, “Funny story about that…”.
     We’d go back to her house and she’d fix dinner and give the kid a bath and put her to bed and then we’d get into it, but we had to be quiet.   And if she heard a noise from the other room she’d stop and get off of me, naked, and check on the kid, leaning into the door of the dark room for a few seconds, listening, then she’d climb right back into bed and on top of me and we’d carry on.

     I’d heard that after birth, a woman’s vagina readjusts and it feels even tighter than before she had the baby.   That’s a f*****g myth.   It was like a f*****g catcher’s mitt.   Half the time I couldn’t tell if I was even inside of her.   It was all one big wet, warm, disaster.   A hot, wet, stinky, hairy mess.   One time she switched it up and put it in her a*s and I wasn’t even aware she did the change-up.   I thought, “Jesus.   Finally I’m in!”, then she kept on taking it out and looking at my dick.   I didn’t realize till afterwards that she was checking to see if it was covered in s**t.   Thankfully it wasn’t, but still, I kind of like to know which sex act I’m participating in at any point in time.   If a girl has her finger in my a*s I want to know about it, not wonder why I’m suddenly much less comfortable than I was a couple seconds ago.

     I felt bad about all of the worry-free sex I got before the vaginal trauma, so I felt obliged to throw her a fair amount of bones.   I figured it was the least I could do.   The kid wasn’t a bad kid and the mom just wanted someone to keep her feeling like a woman.   She was into some really weird things though.   She had some lesbian friends that wanted to have kids, but didn’t want to buy sperm.   Well, sperm I got plenty of, and since I’m awesome and I’m not planning on having any kids anytime soon, I figured I might as well spread the wealth.   I volunteered my pearly white gun oil, but it never happened.   I wasn’t sure how we were going to ladle in the gravy anyways.   I could have jerked off into a rocks glass and they could use a turkey baster or whatever, but I didn’t want some crazy dyke coming after me for child support in ten years, so I wanted there to be some kind of legal on paper agreement that I give them the sperm and that’s that.   I don’t want to come around and play third wheel daddy.   I guess I could have provided the sperm in the natural way, it probably would have had a better chance of working that way too, but as hot as it is to imagine having sex with lesbians, these were the kind of lesbians that you didn’t want to have sex with.   Mannish, butchy, pug-nosed, heavy-set, short-haired, man-hating lesbians.   So f**k that noise.

     I started tapering off our dinner-dates until she got the message that dinner with baby and unfulfilling guilt-ridden sex was not my idea of what I wanted to do on a Friday night.   A few years down the line, she accused me of being a racist over LiveJournal, which is just absurd.   So I told her she was a sheltered little private school princess and she should have spent a month at my high school where five, tough as nails, underprivileged inner-city black girls would beat the s**t out of her and steal every last thing out of her purse every day in gym class.   F**k racism.   I just went to high school with some real underprivileged a******s.   Black, brown, red, yellow, or white.   An a*****e’s an a*****e no matter what color their skin is.

     So she unsubscribed from my journal and I didn’t hear from her anymore.

     Years later I looked her up on MySpace to see how she was doing.   She got all into ecoconsciousness and midwifery and polyamory and now she has, like, three different kids from three different fathers, but she can afford to support them and none of them are mine, so God bless her.

     I spent another year alone.

     Like all of life.   Wet spells and dry spells.   Strikes and gutters.

     I had to take some time off to redefine myself.

     I was in pretty bad shape too.

     Working and going to school full-time hadn’t helped.

     I was waking up and getting into my car and going to class and sitting down and getting up and getting into my car and going to work, where I worked third shift and I was exhausted, so I sat down and copped naps all night then I’d get up, get into my car, and go home and go to bed then repeat the whole thing day in day out.

     I wasn’t getting a lot of quality sleep, so my body always thought it was hungry, and the carbohydrate fortified college dining center food didn’t help.

     So I went on a drastic diet and started working out every day.

     For the diet I ate only one chicken caesar salad with low-fat dressing for lunch, and as much honeydew melon and cantaloupe as I wanted, washed down with a couple gallons of water a day.

     I had to move down a few notches on my belt, then punch in a couple new ones.

     My XL t-shirts started to bag, then I could wear Large shirts again and look pretty sharp in them.

     I started to hit the local “fetish” club.   Well, it wasn’t really a fetish club.   More like a dive bar with a “fetish” night.   I didn’t go there for the kinks and deviants.   At least not at first.   Not intentionally.     

     I just liked chicks with tattoos and piercings and dyed hair.

     Girls walking around in lingerie or outfits consisting of knee high black boots, a thong and electrical tape “X”s on their n*****s.

     It was the kind of place where strippers go for sexy fun on their nights off.

 

     I’m coming up to the door and there’s this peroxide blonde with a button nose and cornflower blue eyes standing outside in a red pleather miniskirt and a black push-up corset.   She said, “Hey!   You should go I here!”.   I gave her a wry look and said, “Yeah.   I was going to.”

     That was about it.

     I found her on LiveJournal and added her and sent her a message like, “Hey!   Weren’t you the girl I talked to outside the club on fetish night?”

     It was.

     We went back and forth and made plans and we ended up dating for a couple years.

     Since we met at fetish night of course we played around with BDSM a little.

     Nothing major.   Some neckties.   Some duct tape.   Some ice cubes.   Candle wax.   A dull knife.

     But it got boring.

     It’s so much work setting up a good BDSM session.

     Putting the CDs aside.   Getting the candles set up.

     And there’s only so much variation you can do on any theme.

     We played the break-up / make-up game for a while.

     When we were broken up I didn’t care what or who she did as long as she didn’t bring back some fucked up venereal disease.

     But when we were together I figured we were seeing each other exclusively.

     Then I started hearing vague rumors that there was another guy.

     I wasn’t angry that she was “cheating” on me.   I chalked that up to human nature.

     People say that they’ll tell the other person, but they never do.   At least not in my experience.

     I was just offended that she thought that she was smarter than I was.

     She was f*****g around with some guy from the fetish club and meeting up with him there when she told me she was just going there with her friend who was covering for her.

     I was offended that she was screwing around in our social circle and she thought that she could get away with f*****g around and that I’d never figure it out.

     It was just disrespectful.   That’s all.

     She came over the house and she went to use the bathroom.

     I dove into her bag and checked her text message inbox.

     Of course.   When will they ever learn?

     I flipped the phone shut and tucked it back into her bag and acted casual when she came back in.

     We still messed around with BDSM every now and again so it wasn’t a surprise when I started commanding her.

     I told her to stand still up.

     She smiled coyly, thinking she was in for a treat.

     She was in for a treat alright.

     I picked up a roll of duct tape and cut a length which I put over her eyes.

     I unbuttoned her shirt and roughly folded it down over her shoulders.

     White blouse, black push-up bra if you must know.

     I pushed the straps off of her shoulders and spun her around, undoing the double hooks.

     I spun her back around and she let the bra fall to the floor.

     I could tell she was excited.   Her n*****s were erect, sticking out from her smooth firm pale white breasts.

     She stepped out of her shoes and I unzipped the side of her skirt and it fell to the floor among the rest of her clothes.

     I let her stand there and dragged my fingertips up and down her legs and torso.

     I figured I wasn’t going to be seeing this again so I might as well get an eye full.

     Whenever I veered near her black thong she would lean in towards me and gasp.

     Finally I grabbed the sides of her thong and swiped them down around her ankles.

     I could see her outer vaginal lips were glistening with secretion.

     I spun her around and I picked up the duct tape and cut a couple more lengths.

     I duct taped each wrist to the opposite elbow.

     I said, “Get on your knees.”

     She dropped to her knees with a fleshy clopping sound.

     I thwapped the head of my erection around her mouth and made her try to get her mouth on it like she was bobbing for apples.

     I let her get her mouth on it.   She got about half of it in and hummed.

     Then she took her mouth off of it and ran her tongue up and down the shaft, with detours around the head, then back down the shaft and over my balls.   She licked her way back up and got it back in her mouth.   She worked it in and out of her mouth for a little while, then I grabbed her ears and pushed my dick in until it hit the back of her throat.   She made muffled gagging sounds.   I let her gag on it till she stopped gagging and then I took it out quickly and she gasped a little for air.

     We kept that up until I got bored and I put my hands into her armpits and lifted, saying, “Up!”.

     She waited standing while I cut another length of duct tape and patted it firmly over her mouth.

     Bound and gagged, I pushed her over face down on the bed.

     Her arms strained, naturally wanting to break her fall, but since her arms were firmly bound, her face took the impact on the pillows and her tits took the impact on the mattress.

     I rifled in her purse and got out her phone.

     I could see her out of the periphery of my vision trying to use her hearing to figure out what I was doing.

     Maybe she recognized the sound of her purse.   The sound of the clasp, or the reverb of the contents knocking about inside as I rifled for her phone.

     I found her phone and I put it on the bedside table.

     I didn’t bother f*****g her.

     I spread her creamy pale a*s cheeks and let a long drip of spit fall onto her exposed a*****e.   Her pink balloon knot clenched when the spit hit it.   I always thought that was funny.   It always happens.

     I swished my mouth around, working up more spit and put my thumb in my mouth, loading it up with spit.   I used my thumb to smear my spit around until her a*****e was glisteningly slimy.   Not so much for her comfort as for mine.

     I put the tip of my penis against the center of her anus and pushed in a little to get it started.   She made an annoyed sound, but with her mouth duct-taped shut everything just sounded like “Mmmm.” with minor melodic variations.

     You know what they say?   It’s true.

     Eighty-five percent of communication is body language.    By her body language, I could tell that she didn’t much like the head of my c**k in her a*s.

     I adjusted my hips and hers so I could put some more weight behind my hard-on and watched my c**k gradually disappear into her pink a*****e.   Her shoulders strained, and her head wrenched back, and she “mmmm”-ed her annoyance, but there wasn’t much she could do about it.   I was going to what I was going to do.

     When I was balls-deep, I leaned back so that I was resting with my knees on the bed, sitting on the upper part of her thighs with my a*s, and the inside of my legs on either side of her hips.   I was pretty comfortable, and I didn’t care about her comfort.

     I leaned over to the bedside table and picked up her cell phone.   I flipped it open and pressed the buttons and went through the menu to bring up her text messages.   I clicked “View All”.

     When she heard the cell phone sounds, she started “Mmmm”-ing in protestation when she realized what I was doing.   She never liked me going through her cell phone.   I’m not the jealous type, but I’m also not the foolish type and every now and then I like to check the cell phone of whatever girl I’m seeing to make sure that there’s nothing blatantly obviously fucked up going on.   The way I figure it, if they’re not guilty, if they have nothing to hide, then they have nothing to worry about.   She should just let me satisfy my insecurity and when there was nothing suspicious in her phone it would just leave me looking insecure and jealous.     But girls never just let you look through their cell phone.   They always throw a hissy fit or at least shoot you lots of dirty looks while you’re doing it.   I think I understand why.   It’s the implication of the action.   By thumbing through their cell phone they think you’re implying that they’re up to something with someone else, so they think that you don’t trust them.   Some girls even use the excuse that since you don’t trust them, they might as well go out and do something worth being accused of since they figure they’re already catching the heat, they might as well commit the crime.   It’s human nature.

     I didn’t care if she went through my cell phone.   Before she came over I always erased my call history and text messages.   That should have seemed suspicious enough.

     Trust.

     Trust is a funny thing.

     It’s just when you think you know someone that they go and do something to lose your trust.

     You see, someone has to earn your trust in order to lose it.

     So it’s when you trust someone that they have the most freedom to do something deceitful.

     That’s why I don’t trust anybody.

     Like Ronald Reagan said, when discussing nuclear missile programs with Michael Gorbachev, “Trust, but verify.”

     So here I was, trusting, but verifying.

     I had a creeping suspicion from my woman’s intuition.

     Press a button, selecting from a menu.   Boop.

     Press another button selecting from another menu.   Boop.

     The evidence was all there.   Stupid cow.   Right there in chronological order.

     I read a couple just to make sure that it wasn’t innocuous banter.

     Maybe something like his advances and her protestations of her love for me.

     It wasn’t.

     I said, “What have we here?”, and I went down the list reading the chronological progression of the evidence.

     “Dinner and a movie?”

     I clicked through to the next message.

     “ ‘Make sure you buy some more condoms?’   Well, at least you’re having safe sex.”

     While I read down the list, I fucked her a*s.   Steadily.   I wasn’t in any rush.

     “ ‘I can’t wait to suck your dick tonight.’ ”, I paused.

     I put on an angry tone, “What’s wrong with my dick, huh?   My dick not good enough for you?”

     I wasn’t angry with her.    I just wanted her to think I was angry with her.   That way she’d struggle, and her writhing would make the sodomy that much more dynamic.   This was more exciting than a donkey punch.

     Usually when I fucked her in the a*s, she would just take it like a corpse, mooing plaintitively with her mouth taped shut.   Her wrists loosely bound with duct tape.   She could have shimmied free whenever she wanted to, and when we were done she had all of the tape off in under ten seconds, and then strutted off to the bathroom to administer to her throbbing a*****e.   Maybe to sit down on the toilet and take a minute to recompose herself and poop out my semen, so it didn’t come oozing out of her swollen butthole while we were laying around in bed afterwards.   I never really fucked her very hard.   Not like you see in anal porn.   I didn’t want to tear her anus.   I wanted her to come back.   It was fun f*****g her, and I wanted her to come back for more.   So I didn’t f**k her in the a*s every time she came by or I figured she’d get tired of that s**t and she wouldn’t come over any more.   It wasn’t really very exciting that way, so I usually just focused and tried to come so I could have it over with.   I didn’t really enjoy f*****g her in the a*s.   I mostly just did it, because I know she didn’t like it.

     I grabbed a fistful of her peroxide blond hair in my right fist and pulled her head back.

     I leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “Or maybe I should choke the life right out of you right now, huh?”   I gave her a few hard rams in the a*s.   Leaning in closely I could hear her swallow and hear the air whooshing in and out of her nose in short panic breaths.

     I leaned back on my haunches and extended my hand to the side of her face.

     When my hand brushed the side of her face, she jerked her head away, and I had to use my right hand to pin her head sideways against the stack of pillows, while I fumbled for the edge of the tape with my left thumb and forefinger.

      “Quit struggling.”, I said, exasperatedly.   “I’m just trying to take the tape off.”

      I managed to pinch the edge of the grey duct tape between my thumb and forefinger and picked a little finger-tab free, then ripped the length of tape off of her mouth.   Like you do with a band-aid when you don’t want it to hurt, but I’m sure it stung a little.   The area where the tape had been was pale for a second, in comparison to her flushed cheeks, but then the blood rushed in.

     She breathed out from her mouth, and it made a “Puh” sound as her lips unstuck.   She snorked back the spit and snot that had built up at the back of her throat and I heard her gulp it down, then she started breathing through her mouth.

     I waited for her to get a few breaths in, then I resumed sodomizing her at a steady pace.

     “Well?”, I said, “What have you got to say for yourself?”

     The first thing she said was my name.

     Like the parent of a serial killer saying the name of the missing to humanize them.

     “Yes?”, I replied.

     “Please.”, she said.

     “What?   I’m not hurting you or anything.   It’s not like you haven’t been fucked in the a*s before.   By me.   On several occasions.”

     “Untie me.”, she said.

     “Nope.”   I continued my steady rhythm.   “I figure we have something we have to talk about.”

     I waited to see if she had anything else to say.

     I could practically see her mind racing, trying to figure out all of the angles.   Trying to think ahead to what I might say.   What I might do.

     You see, I had thought everything out already, and had planned this out, and everything was going according to plan.   Whereas she had to think on her feet.   Or hogtied on her stomach more to the point.

We had wrestled around before, and she knew that I had her pinned and she wasn’t going anywhere unless I decided to let her.   So she just put her head down and her whole body relaxed a few degrees.

     “I’m not going to hurt you.   Not unless you make me.”   I paused verbally, but not physically.

     “The way I figure it the whole thing boils down to one question, and that question is, ‘Him or me?’ ”

     “What?”

     I slapped her across the back of her head on the right side with my right hand, open-palmed, and it made a smack and a thud sound simultaneously.   Her body clenched for a second in reaction and stayed a little more tense than it had been before I slapped her upside the head.

     “You know I hate repeating myself.   And you know I know that you’re not stupid so don’t play dumb with me.   I asked you a question.   ‘Him or me?’ ”

     I kept f*****g her a*s steadily.   She didn’t answer.

     She was thinking.   She was being willful.   She was being stubborn.

     Maybe she was trying to think of the right things to say to influence my behavior, but I wasn’t in the mood for head games.   I figured we had enough of prevarication and subterfuge and dissembling already.   It was time for plain talk.   But since she was being willful I had to break her will.

      I swept my right hand across the back of her head, gathering her hair into a pony-tail in my fist.

      I pressed my body down onto hers.   My front to her back, and I pulled her head back, craning her neck.

      I switched up the pace, pulling my dick out till just the head was inside.  When I felt the head bump against her sphincter I’d ram it back in, balls deep, accentuating the end of my sentences.

      Pull out. “Well?”   Ram!

      Slowly pull back.   “What’s it gonna be?”   Ram!

      Pull back.   “Him?”   Ram!

      Pull back.   “Or me?”   Ram!

      She didn’t say anything, but the expression on her face was a mix between a wince and a grimace.

      Pull back.   “Him?”   Ram!

      Pull back.   “Or me?”   Ram!

      Stubborn b***h.   I picked up the pace.

      “Him?”   Ram!   “Or me?”   Ram!

      “Him?”   Ram!   “Or me?”   Ram!   “Him?”   Ram!   “Or me?”   Ram!   “Him?”   Ram!   “Or me?”   Ram!

      I wasn’t railing her hard enough to break anything.   I wasn’t trying to do any permanent damage, but it must have felt like it to her.   I’ve never had anyone make hate to my a*s, but I’m sure it felt a lot worse for her than it did for me, and I could do this s**t for hours.   Her lips were pressed into a thin white line and under the tape over her eyes she was probably squinting as the eye part of wincing.

      Ram!   “Him?”   Ram!   “Or me?”   Ram!

      Finally she let out a blast of air and a sob without the crying she sucked in a gasp of air and yelled, “You!   Okay?   You!   You f*****g a*****e!”

      Several subtle beautiful things happened in simultaneity.   I pushed myself up into a straddle again and unclenched my fist.   Her head hit the pillow with a “flumph” sound and her hair spread in tousled strands across her shoulders and face and the pillows.   I felt a fleeting sadness, nostalgic for when I thought that the way her hair strewn across my pillow was beautiful.   I’d wake up in my bed and I’d find one of her stray hairs left behind on my pillow or on the sheets or on the floor and I’d think of her and smile to myself nostalgically.   That was then.   This is now.   Nothing would ever be the same.

     “There.   That was easy wasn’t it?”

     I had won.   I had broken her.   I wasn’t unnecessarily cruel.   I only hit her once, and even then not anywhere it would really hurt.   The only places she would feel it were her a*****e and her pride.   She did what anyone does when they find themselves in an inescapable situation.  They struggle for a while, but then they give up and resign themselves to it.   Like monkeys in cages that masturbate themselves until they’re raw or dogs in kennels that lick themselves or gnaw on their legs until they’re a danger to themselves.   I had won.

      I had stopped f*****g her when I sat up.   Now I resumed the steady rhythm that I had started with.

      She put her forehead down on the pillow.   Even though her eyes had duct tape covering them she didn’t want to look in my direction.

      I kept moving my hips back and forth, f*****g her a*s.

      I said, “Say you like it.”

      She said, “I like it.” in a dull flat voice.

      She didn’t like it, but she said it anyway.

      It was the definition of irony.

      The next time you think about the definition of irony, I hope you’ll think about this.

      Maybe you will.   And maybe you’ll press your lips tight to avoid a bitter smile.   And maybe you won’t.

      I said, “Say you love it when I f**k your a*s.”

      She said, “I love it when you f**k my a*s.”

      If she was in a humorous mood, she could have said, “You love it when I f**k your a*s.”, but she wasn’t in a humorous mood.

      Then it became like it always was.

      Her resigned.   Just taking it.   The moment had passed.

      I closed my eyes and concentrated, thinking up a more arousing scenario in my head to compliment the physical sensations of my body.   I made it.   I came.    I groaned.   I clenched my dick muscles to milk out the last of my jism while I was still inside her and I pulled out.

      She clenched her a*s to keep my semen inside her like she always did.

      I cut the tape binding her wrists to her opposite forearms behind her back, and sat at the foot of the bed, facing the doorway, watching her out of the corner of my eye.

      She rolled onto her side, swung her legs out over the side of the bed and sat up in one fluid motion.   She ripped the patch of duct tape from across her eyes and stood up without looking at me.   She crumpled the tape into a ball and walked out of the room naked, dropping the crumpled ball of duct tape into the waste basket by the door.

    I heard her walk to the bathroom and heard the bathroom ventilation fan go on which happened every time anyone turned on the light.

     She came back into the room and sat on the bed and gathered up her clothes.

     While she was gone I had lit a cigarette and I just smoked and watched.

     She put her clothes on and gathered up the few possessions of hers that she brought with her without saying a word.

     When she got her shoes on she made for the door.   I said, “Call me.” in an affectedly chipper voice.

     She grabbed the knob, opened the door and turned and shot me an icy glare in one lithe motion.

     She stepped through the door and slammed it closed behind her.

     I didn’t expect to hear from her ever again and I didn’t.

 

     I got a job as a vendor for a major corporation.

     It was pretty sweet work.

     I only had to work a couple hours a day to get done everything that was expected of me.

     I’d f**k off of work and go see a movie to kill the time.

     I watched a lot of matinees.

 

     When I started the job they had a group orientation for all of the new hires.

     One of them was a short redhead with curly hair and freckles and glasses.

     She was cute and flirty and I’ve always had a weakness for both redheads and girls with glasses.

 

     All of the new hires had to attend a week long training the next state over.

     The company was going to put us up and we had to go to a conference room each day and watch presentations about the miscellany of products our company merchandised.

     I asked the redhead if she wanted to car pool.

     She smiled and agreed, so I figured I was in.

 

     She drove out to pick me up in her boyfriend’s s.u.v.

     During the drive up there she kept on talking about him and how they lived together.

     I figured I was out.

 

     We get to the hotel and we attend the presentations.

     I sat near the girl but I ignored her all day long except for passing a silly note making fun of the presenters every now and then.   More to amuse myself than anything else.

    At the end of the day I didn’t bother saying anything.

     I went to the hotel bar and ordered a tall glass of beer.

     I figured if I wasn’t going to get laid I might as well have a few drinks.

     Then in walks the redhead.

     She was still wearing her work clothes but it was obvious that she had gone up to her room and put on make up and come looking for me.

     We had a few drinks.   Conversation.

     I close my tab.   She closes her.

     We get on the same elevator.

     She looks at me and she’s got that funny glint in her eye.

     My friend Doggy calls it “the buffalo eye”.

     She licks her lips, they glisten.

     We start full-on making out.

     The elevator opens on the floor we’re all staying on and we go back to her room.

     There’s a variety of girly stuff strewn about the room.

     We stagger over to the bed while still full-on making out.

     She undoes my belt and feels my c**k through my pants.

     I grab a fistful of the hair on the back of her head and I stick my tongue down her throat.

     She pants through her nose.

     I grab the bottom of her shirt and I pull it up over her head and look at her chest.

     She’s wearing a cream colored lacy underwire bra and although her skin is creamy and pale she’s spattered with freckles all over her chest and shoulders.

     I pull my shirt over my head throw it on the floor.

     She admires my chest tattoos and starts kissing my chest, pausing to flick each n****e with her tongue.

     I push her back onto the bad and I start undoing my pants.

     She starts undoing hers.

     We finish at the same time.

     I hook my thumbs into my underpants and push them down, hooking my socks on the way down.   I step out of my shoes and leave everything behind in a heap.

     She shimmies out of her pants at the same time and I notice she’s not wearing any panties.

     We pause for a second to admire each other’s nakedness then I jump up onto the bed and we’re all over each other.   We’re rubbing our hands all over each other’s bodies.

     Mostly she’s underneath me and I put my right hand behind her left shoulder.

     She gets the drift and twists her torso and I unhook her bra, which she slips off and throws off to the side and she lets me look at her breasts.

     They’re large and creamy white with jellybean n*****s and rose pink areoles which are semi-rigid.

     I get back on top of her and after kissing her for a few seconds I work my way down either side of her neck down to her tits.

     I kiss and suck spirals around the mounds until I reach the n*****s and I suck and flick them with my tongue and bite them, causing her to moan and sigh and suck in air through her clenched teeth.

     I kiss down the center of her stomach and I put my mouth on the mound at the top of her vagina.

     Her pubic hair is slight and light red and looks like a little spit-curl.

     She thrusts her abdomen towards me and spreads her legs wide so I have enough room to work.

     I move her c**t around with the flat of my tongue and hum.

     She gasps and I flick her c**t with the tip of my tongue.

     I part her outer and inner vaginal lips with my tongue and slide my tongue inside of her vaginal canal.

     I f**k her with my tongue while she f***s my tongue.

     She tastes tangy and hot and sharp like when you touch your tongue to a nine volt battery.

     I lift myself up and put my hips between her legs.

     I look her in the eyes and say “Condom?” while raising an eyebrow.

     She smiles and grabs my a*s and pulls me closer towards her and I slide into her.

     She’s well-lubricated but not too loose.

     I do the f*****g and she moves with me, rocking back and forth.

     Sweat comes up on my brow and my back and she licks the sweat from my neck while a bead trickles down my spine.

     I catch my breath and say, “Switch?”

     She smiles and nods and I get off of her and she shifts over from the center of the bed.

     I lay on my back and the hotel bedspread is refreshing against my back.

     She gets on her hands and knees to my side, and crosses over me.

     First she places her left arm for balance, then she crosses her left leg over and perches up on her knees.

     She takes my c**k and puts the head between her p***y lips and settles down on it, looking up at the ceiling and smiling in contentment with her eyes closed.

     She rides me, rocking my erection back and forth inside her, bumping rhythmically against the back wall, then the front.

    Back and forth.   Back and forth.

    She does this for a while and then she takes a deep breath and exhales, saying “Whew!”

     I say “Switch?” and she responds with nodding and a wide grin.

     She lifts her left leg again and I pop out of her and slap against my stomach.

     I do a roll off to the side and she gets on her hands and knees and crawls up towards the pillows.

     She rests the upper half of her body on the pillows and I get behind her on my knees.

     I slap her a*s and since it’s plump but firm the surface barely shimmers.

     I position myself to put myself inside her and I see she has a shamrock tattoo in her a*s, colored in with the flags of the Irish flag.

     “Kiss my Irish a*s.”   Ha!

     I ram myself inside her and I push her up against the wall.

     Her left shoulder and the left side of her head are up against the wall and I use her waist as a handhold as I thrust and withdraw moving my hips back and forth in a varying rhythm.

     Her head and shoulder thump against the wall each time I thrust.

     I keep it up until I can tell that I’m going to come soon.

     I stop thrusting and pull out of her.

     While I catch my breath, she flips over onto her back and bends her legs with her feet on the bed and her knees up, spreading them.

     I slide my hands under her knees up until the opposite of my elbows and I lift her legs up and towards her.   I lean forward and support myself like I was getting ready to do push ups.

     My dick finds its way into her and I start pile-driving her.

     She makes appreciative sounds each time my pubic bone slaps against hers.

     It sounds like “Uh! Uh! Uh! Mmmm!   Mmmm!” with a “F**k!” or an “Oh s**t!” thrown in every now and then.

     I feel like I’m going to cum so I say, “I think I’m gonna come!” in a stage whisper.

     She replies, “Do it!”

     While continuing my thrusting I ask, “In or on?”

     She locks her arms around my neck and draws my shoulders down and kisses me hard, mashing our mouths together.

     I ram myself all the way in and I start cumming and I can feel her insides squeezing me to match the pulsing of my penis.

     Each time she squeezes me she makes and “Mmmm.” sound and I do the same, but on every other pulse for variety’s sake.

     When I’ve stopped pumping my jism into her she squeezes a couple more times, but less intensely and she lets me loose from her embrace.

     I push myself off of her and she tucks her legs in and I flop down on my back by her side.

     She kisses me and smiles and then gets out of bed and goes to the hotel room bathroom.

     I see the light go on as squarish shape on the carpet and hear the whir of the ventilation fan.

     While she’s in the bathroom I lean over the edge of the bed and rifle through my pants pockets for my cigarettes and my lighter.

     I fish a cigarette out and light it while moving the ashtray to the side of the bedside nightstand closest to bed and lay back down, inhaling deeply and exhaling a plume of smoke into the air while satisfiedly sighing.

     She comes out of the bathroom and walks over.

     I watch the motion of her naked body.

     She climbs up onto the bed and on her hands and knees she leans over and fishes around in her purse.

     I steal a look at her profile from the rear while she’s bent over.

     She pulls out a pack of Marlboro Lights, which everyone I know refers to as “s**t butts” and one of those oval shaped Bic liters.

     I forget what color it was.

     She lit her smoke and took a drag and began to tell me about herself.

     It’s true she lives with her boyfriend, but he’s mostly useless.

     And by useless she meant impotent.

     But she sticks with him because he takes good care of her.

     And by takes good care of her she meant he makes sure that she has all of the right pills in her med-minder.

     She’s on a chemical of cocktails to address her psychiatric problems.

     She’s schizophrenic.   But as long as she’s on her medications he’s able to function.

     I ask her what happens when she doesn’t take her meds.

     She tells me that the voices start to come back.

     I ask her what the voices sound like and she couldn’t tell me much except that the voices are male and they say terrible things about her.   Like someone talking about you but just within earshot.

     I decide to not make a habit out of seeing her.

     We finish our cigarettes and stub them out and we get back into it.

     That’s how we spent the week.

     Presentations during the day ten we’d go back to her room get naked and f**k all night.

     I didn’t ask to f**k her in the a*s, but she offered that she usually doesn’t mind having anal sex but there was no way I was putting my big dick in her a*s.

     I didn’t care.   I don’t have any kind of preference for anal.

     By the end of the week she was talking about leaving her boyfriend and moving into my apartment but I deflected her implications with noncommittal replies, like, “We’ll see.”

     On the last day she was pale and didn’t look well.

     It’s understandable.   It’s not like we got a lot of sleep.

     She got up during one of the presentations and bolted out the back of the conference room.

     Everyone looked at me and I just looked sheepish and shrugged.

     After the presentation, up in her room, she told me she thought she might be pregnant.

     Conversation on the ride back home was a little stilted and forced.

 

     A couple weeks later I drove out to the apartment she shared with her boyfriend.

     He was away on business and I wanted to know for sure if she was pregnant or not.

     It was a nice little place.   They had one of those luxurious long-haired cats that looks like a stuffed animal and its hair was all over all of the furniture.

     She showed me around and then we went into the bedroom.

     There was a copy of the “A to Z Guide to Serial Killers” on the nightstand.

     I asked her if she was pregnant.   She said she wasn’t.

     We started making out, but it wasn’t like that week at the training retreat.

     We had sex and this time I came on, not it.

     While she wiped the cum off of her abdomen with her pajama pants, I got dressed.

     When I was dressed I said, “Well, I’ll be seeing you.” but I never did.

     She had issues I didn’t want a subscription to.

 

     Around this time my parents decided they wanted to sell their house and move down south.

     I convinced them to let me live in the house they were leaving.

     In exchange I would pay the mortgage and taxes.

     It was a ranch style house.   Relatively small and secluded.

     The house was out on a country road and around the perimeter of the property there were thick stands of trees and stone walls which were gradually returning to the earth from whence they came.

     There was a kitchen, a bathroom, a living room and three bedrooms upstairs.

     The house had a finished basement that ran the length of the house.

     I decide to live in the basement and maybe rent out the bedrooms above.

     I preferred the open space and relative privacy of the basement.

 

     I told my friends about the house and the open bedrooms which were available to rent, but all of my friends still lived with their parents and were not interested in moving out and paying rent.

     So there was a lot of talk, but not a lot of action.

     I lived alone, but it wasn’t a big deal.

     I made enough money to cover the expenses without going into debt and I didn’t mind living by myself.

 

     Around the same time MySpace started to gain popularity.

     One night while a friend was over my house he was using my computer.

     I idly asked him what he was up to and he said he was on MySpace.

     He asked me if I had a profile and I replied, “Why bother?   I already have a LiveJournal.”.

     He rolled his eyes and helped me set up an account.

     I added my few friends then went on to look up the names of every girl I ever had a crush on, dated, made out with or had sex with to see where they were and how they were doing now.

     Half of them had themselves listed as single, so I figured what worked once might work again and decided to try to go back to the well.

     It was simple.

     Those that didn’t want to put out back then had gone through the wringer and were all dirty and sex crazy.   I’d send an introductory message and we’d go back and forth a few times.   I’d go over the house with a stack of DVDs and a bottle of wine and that’s all it took.

     Revenge may be a dish best served cold, but f*****g the s**t out of someone that wouldn’t come across ten years ago is bittersweet.   Breasts sag and asses get plumper and vaginal lips get all floppy.

 

     I used MySpace to search my hometown for everyone in the age range that I might’ve gone to high school with to see if I saw any familiar faces.

     I didn’t recognize anyone, so I just went back to the first page and started clicking through good-looking headshots to check out profiles.   If the profile was all fake and filled with glitter graphics, I backed out.   If the profile had a lot of black I checked out the pictures.   If the profile picture wasn’t false advertisement I sent an add request.   I must have sent dozens.

     A couple days later I get a message from one of them.

     Turns out I knew her well in high school but didn’t recognize her.

     I checked out her pics and she looked like she was in pretty good shape.

     We made plans to hang out and I brought over a stack of DVDs and a bottle of wine like usual.

     She answers the door and she’s wearing a tank top and glasses.

     I raise my hands up.   DVDs in one hand.   Wine in the other.

     She invites me in and I follow her up the staircase, checking out her a*s.   It’s a little bigger than I usually go for, but it moved nicely in her pants when she walked up the stairs.

     The apartment wasn’t anything extraordinary.

     We get into the wine and the DVDs.

     ‘Suspiria’ is the first film.

     We watch the film and drink wine and make small talk.   You know, “What have you been doing for the past ten years?”

     The movie ends and the wine bottle’s empty so she breaks out one of her bottles of wine and I put in ‘Blue Velvet’.   I’m sitting to the left of her and over the course of the movie and the bottle of wine, I move my right hand over and start touching her.

     First I play with the tendrils of hair on her neck.   Then I trace my fingertips lightly up and down along the side of her neck.   She’s ignoring it, so I say, “Hey.   If this is bugging you just tell me.”.   She says, “No.” and it goes on like that for the rest of the film.

     The movie ends and she leans forward and grabs the remote and turns off the TV.

     She takes off her glasses and puts them on the coffee table and she turns to me with a tipsy smile and leans into me.   We’re kissing and making out and making “Mmm” sounds at each other.   She’s a good kisser, but after waiting four hours, kissing is boring.   I’ve got a raging hard on and if we make out for too long I’m just going to have to pee.   I break off kissing and say, “Wanna switch rooms?”

     She smiles and nods and gets up and walks towards her bedroom.  I get up and say, “I gotta use the John.”   I walk over to the bathroom and fumble for the lightswitch.   I step up to the toilet and undo my fly.   My erection is thick and veiny and luscious and it takes a little concentration to make it go down enough that I can pee and even then I have to hold myself up using the wall over the toilet so I could lean over and not piss all over the back of it.

     I button myself back in and walk to her room.

     I walk in and she’s waiting on the bed.   She lit a few votive candles.

     I get on the bed and we’re into the making out again.

     We’re laying side by side for a while and then I roll her on top of me.

     She straddles me and I know she can feel my hard-on pressing up against her.

     I grab the shoulder straps of her tank top with both hands and pull her down so we can make out some more.   We do that for a few minutes and then she flips us around so I’m on top of her, between her legs.   I start humping her while we’re making out.   It looks like I’m going to have to move things along.

     I take off my shirt and throw it off to the side.   She checks out my chest and then she takes of hers.   She’s got on a beige bra with big smooth cups.   I reach for her fly and start undoing it so she reaches for mine.   We finish about the same time and she flips down the waistband of my underpants and starts jerking my dick.   I grab the waistband of her pants and panties and she stops jerking me off so I can take the bottom half of her clothes off.

     I stand up on her bed and take off my pants and underpants and she turns over and reaches over to the nightstand table and opens a drawer and takes out a condom and puts it on the bed.   I kick my pants off the bed and since I’m standing on the bed she gets on her knees and starts sucking my dick.   She’s good at it and obviously enjoys her work.   I don’t want her to get me off with her mouth so I push her away from me and get down on my knees in front of her.   I push her back and she lands on her back with a flumph.

     I get up on her and we start making out.   She breaks off for a second and whips off her bra.   Her tits are big and beautiful except for the n*****s which look like raisins shaped like Hershey’s kisses.   I dive right for the n*****s and suck on each in turn while humping the outside of her p***y.

     I break off and tear open the condom and smooth it down the length of my rod.   She takes the couple seconds it takes me to blow out a couple candles.

     She lays on her back and I get on top of her.   I hold myself up with my left arm and hold the shaft of my c**k with my right hand and use the head of my c**k to slide open her p***y lips.

     I find the opening of her vaginal canal.   I can feel it with the tip of my c**k and I push it in.

     There’s nothing like that first time.

     I go in balls-deep and she bites her lip and sucks in air through her teeth.

     I put my arms under her hamstrings and lift her legs up and I just start f*****g her.

     She starts talking s**t like, “Oh yeah!”, “F**k!”, “F*****g do it!”

     I just f**k and f**k and f**k for an hour or so just pounding away missionary style until I feel an orgasm coming on and I say, “Here it comes!”

     She says, “Do it!” and I cum and groan in a rhythm with my orgasmic pulsing and she says, “Yeah!   Yeah!   Yeah!   Yeah!”.   I clench the muscles of my c**k one more time then I pull out and lay on the right.   She gets up and almost falls over.   Her legs are all weak and shaky and she giggles.     She blows out the rest of the candles and comes back to the bed and pulls back her side of the covers.

     We climb under the covers and she turns over onto her right side and I spoon her and we fall asleep.

     The next morning we both wake up around the same time.

     She gets up and uses the bathroom.

     She comes back into bed and gives me a coy look and starts playing with my penis until she gets it half hard then she starts jerking me off.   When she gets it all the way hard she grins at me and walks on her knees to the bottom of the bed.   I follow her lead and get on my back in the center.   She straddles my ankles and leans over and starts blowing me.   She’s looking me dead in the eyes while she does it and that’s wicked hot.   She hums every now and then and she’s really enjoying teasing and pleasing me with her mouth.   I’m not worried about blowing my load because I’m desensitized because of the sex the night before.   The pressure is off.

     She keeps it up for a half an hour or so and when I don’t make like I’m going to come in her mouth she climbs up on top of me and sits on my dick.   No condom this time.

     She moves her hips back and forth rocking my dick inside her.   After a few minutes she puts the first few fingers of her right hand into her mouth and reaches down and starts rubbing her c**t in circles matching the rhythm of her back and forth movement and I can feel her butt clenching on my thighs.

     She rubs and rocks faster and closes her eyes and arches her head back and says, “Oh!   Oh!   Oh!” and her a*s clenches and her thighs clench and I can feel the inside of her c**t squeezing me while she cums.   I have to clench my eyes and concentrate not to blow my load up inside her.

     The squeezing gradually slows and softens and she swings her left leg over me, popping me out of her and I follow her lead and get up on my left elbow, then onto my knees and she crawls up to the head of the bed and I get behind her.

      Her face is down in the pillows and her back end is perched up on her knees.   I put my hands under her a*s and position her at the right height so I can get a clear shot at her.

     I wiggle forth on my knees a little and grab my c**k with my right hand and line it up with her wet crack.

     I lurch my hips forward and ram myself into her and she makes an “Uh!” sound.

     I f**k her hard and fast.   Her a*s is big and soft and it jiggles just a little each time my hips smack against it.   The rhythm is fluid like when you used to rock back and forth in the bathtub when you were a kid to make waves.

     Her a*****e is like a pink balloon knot and I can see it every time I look down.

     I lift my right hand up and put my whole thumb in my mouth.

     Wet with spit, I lower my arm and put the flat of my thumb on her a*****e.

     I bend my thumb at the joint and ease the tip of my thumb into her a*****e and rest my four splayed fingers of my right hand on the base of her spine.

     Whenever her p***y squeezes my c**k her a*****e clenches the tip of my thumb.

     I change the pace so that I’m f*****g her slower but harder.

     When I can’t hold off any more I pull out.   When I pull out she stops moving expectantly.

     I groan and cum all over her back, my semen spurting across her, glistening and opalescent.

     When the last spurts have dwindled I reach over and grab her tank top off of the floor and wipe off her back.   It’s still a little wet, but there’s only so much I can do.

     We went on a couple other dates.

     The dates had a lot more talking going on in them and we really didn’t have a lot in common

     We had plans and I called her the day before and she didn’t answer so I left her a message.

     I called her the day of and she didn’t answer.   I didn’t bother leaving a message.

     I guess we were through.

 

     The problem that I had with MySpace is that I had difficulty running more than one woman at a time.

     In college it was easy because they were all in one place.

     As difficult as it was to stay on top of the scheduling in college it was even more difficult running dames across a whole state.

     Rarely could I set up more than one chick in a day.   More often I’d make plans with someone on my day off and we’d spend the day together and maybe I’d stay over their place or they’d stay over mine, then we’d go back to our separate lives at work and home.

     I wasn’t ever interested in setting up house with any of them.

     Some of the girls I dated would hint at it, but I always managed to redirect the conversation.

     I guess that’s the next logical step in a relationship, but after the one that I loved, the one that broke my f*****g heart, I really couldn’t see myself spending my life with any of the others.

 

     After that one was done with me, I went back to the MySpace and started up another one.

     I found a cute little Eastern European girl I hooked up with a little in college.

     In college she was one of the many that showed interest when I got my flirt on.

     The in with her was music, and we made plans for me to go over to her dorm room with some CDs for her to check out.

     I picked some discs out.   I put some thought into it because I knew that the success of the night would depend on the selections.   I grabbed the self-titled Mary Lou Lord CD off Kill Rock Stars, and the first Elliott Smith CD, and John Coltrane’s ‘Giant Steps’, and Tom Waits ‘Early years’ Volume One and Two.   I figured that would do.

     I used the call box at the front door to call up to her suite.   She answered and came down to get me.   She was smiley and in a good mood but that’s just her disposition.

     Her dorm room was simple.   Nothing really on the walls.

     She checked out the discs, but since she hadn’t heard any of them she didn’t have anything to say.

     Backrubs were my big ice-breaker back then.

     She had the first hundred disc changer I had ever seen and she loaded all of the discs I brought over into the changer.

     Somehow I worked the conversation around to massage and backrubs and I sat behind her on the bed.

     The secret was that it wasn’t about the backrub.   It was about the neck play.

     I’d slide my fingers up the back and sides of her neck and then claw back down.

     It always worked.

     Then when you were doing the shoulders, I’d work in wider and wider circles, tracing the boundaries of their bra further and further and when they leaned forward so I could get their lower back I would slide my fingers across the sliver of flesh exposed and get my fingertips under the bottom seam of their shirt.   Slide the fingers forward over their sides across their ribcage and up to the tits and either they cut me off or we started making out.

     This one was different.

     Usually when I slid into second base the girls would turn around and face me.

     This one just craned her neck around and started kissing me.

     So there I was squeezing her big fluffy Eastern European tits and pinching her n*****s through the soft smooth fabric of the cups of her bra.

     After a bit of that I slid my hands back and got my fingers around the strap on either side of her bra hooks.

     She said, “Uh…”

     I said, “What?”

     She leaned forward and pulled her shirt down and said, “I barely know you.”

     I said, “And?”

     She looked at me incredulously.

     I said, “Maybe you’re right.   Maybe I’d better go.”.

     She got up and went to the CD changer and started pulling out my CDs and putting them back in their cases.

     I sighed and reached into my pants and adjusted my dick.

     I wanted her to see my f*****g dickprint.   See what she was missing out on.

     She had my CDs in a stack and she stepped over and held them out to me.

     I took them and grabbed my jacket.

     She walked me out and at the door I said, “I had a nice time tonight.   We should do this again sometime.”   She smiled and I leaned in and kissed her.

     It was closed.   Like shaking hands.

     When I got back to my dorm, my friend Kyle was there and he asked me how my night was.   I told him who I was with and what happened and he started chuckling.

     I asked what was so f*****g funny.

     He said that she did the same damn thing to him, like, a month ago.

     Guess that was her m. o.

 

     This time around things were different.

     I drove down to her area.   I found her place pretty easy.   She had a cute little apartment which had a fair amount of open space, but every surface was cluttered with books or records.

     We went to the liquor store and we stocked up.   I’m not much of a drinker, but she knew what she liked.   We got a pint of Southern Comfort for her, a couple cans of Sparks for us to share and I got a sixer of Green Apple Woodchuck Cider.   I like drinking, but most beer just tastes terrible.   F**k acquired taste.   I’d bet you could develop a taste for diarrhea if you drank it often enough.

     We go back to her place and we settle in.

     The only places to go were her bed or the little loveseat that served as her couch.

     We set up on the loveseat with the booze on a TV table in front of us.

     She had a little TV/VCR.   Her computer monitor had a larger screen so we used that.

     I had brought down a few DVDs and I put ‘Videodrome’ into her DVD drive.

     We watched the movie and drank.   Sipping away.

     The movie ended and I threw in ‘Wild at Heart’.

     The Sparks didn’t make it through the first flick and I had killed three ciders and she had killed almost the whole bottle of SoCo by the end of the second.

     The movie ended and we just turned towards each other and smiled and started kissing.   After a bit of that she got up and I followed her lead.   She took my hand and led me over to where her bed was.

     The sex wasn’t really anything interesting.   It was good, but not the best I’ve ever had.

     It was great to finally get my hands on those tits but time had not been kind and they kind of fell over to the sides of her chest when she was laying on her back.   They were better when she sat on top and we’d take turns playing with them.   Most chicks I hooked up with didn’t play with their tits during sex, but she knew she had great tits and they were a big part of her sex life, pardon the pun.

     She didn’t ride on top much though and when she laid on her back I’d kneel in front of her and drill her and watch her b***s bobble about and she’d giggle like a lunatic.   It was a lot of fun but like I said, it wasn’t the best sex I’ve ever had.

     Plus the outer lips of her vagina were all scrunched up and looked like chewed bubble gum or a wrinkly wad of silly putty.

     It didn’t last long.   She was always so perky and optimistic.

     She was always saying that she was sure that everything would work out alright.

     I got sick of that s**t and one day I said, “Really?   Are you really sure?   And what if it doesn’t?”

     That was pretty much that.

     We had plans and I called her the day before and she didn’t answer so I left her a message.

     I called her the day of and she didn’t answer.   I didn’t bother leaving a message.

     Just like the last one.   I guess that’s how chicks break up with people these days.

 

     The next one I looked up I had to think a little further back to find.

     I had looked for her before and she didn’t have a MySpace profile.

     This time around she had one.

     I sent her a message and we set up a date.

     We went to a Mexican restaurant that had great enchiladas and a good selection of beers.

     She was sharp.   That was what I had admired about her back then and the years had not blunted her wit.

     We had dinner and a few beers and then the time came to check out.

     We went out and sat in my car and talked.

     She asked if I would hold her and I complied.

     She said it was so good to be held.

     She told me she has trouble being physical with people because her grandfather used to take her out on camping trips.   She didn’t have to tell me the details of what he got up to with her on the camping trips.   I’m a smart guy and I could figure it out.   I’ve got a good imagination.

     Crying and talking about child molestation didn’t seem like anything to follow up on so I dropped her off and we made plans to hang out at my place the next week.

     The next week I picked her up and we went to the liquor store and got more of the same beer we drank at the Mexican restaurant.   A sixer of Negro Modelas and a twelve pack of Corona Lights.

     We get to my place and I show her the upper part of the house which is practically empty then we go down into my basement.

     I don’t have a couch.   I just have my TV set up on a couple foot-locker stacked on top of each other with all of my DVDs stacked in front.

     I put in ‘In My Skin’ this freaky French movie about a woman that gradually comes to regard her body as a foreign object and starts to disassemble herself.   It’s really unsettling.

     While we’re watching it we have a couple beers and I stroke her face and play with her ears.   She has big ears that kind of stick out and wide eyes and big pouty lips.

     The movie ends and I turn the TV off and we put our half-empty beers on the nightstand and get to making out.   Her kisses are gentle and sweet and I can feel and taste her need.

     I slyly, subtly undo the buttons of her blouse so that when we break for a second and she looks down she looks surprised that her shirt is open.   She has on a plain white bra and her n*****s are little bumps showing through the material of the cups.

     I roll her on top of me and I push the shoulder of her shirt back and she shrugs out of it.

     I reach back and pinch the back of her bra open and it slouches and she shrugs it off.

     Her breasts are perfect.   Even though she’s a year older than me they don’t droop at all.

     I take off my shirt and she humps me.   I can tell she’s getting really hot.

     I roll her off of me onto her back and I go for the buttons on her shorts.

     She puts her hands over mine and looks at me and says, “Wait!”

     We’re frozen for a moment and I say, “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

     She takes her hands off of mine and she closes her eyes.

     I undo the buttons and pull just her shorts off.   She’s wearing plain white cotton panties that match her bra.

     I kneel in front of her, between her calves and I claw my fingers up and down her body and she writhes in response to my touch.

     After half a dozen passes I put my left hand over her vagina over her panties.   It’s warm and damp.

     I switch my left for my right and I press against her with my thumb and she moans.

     I get up off the bed and take off my pants and boxers and she opens her eyes to slits to look at me.

     I get on my knees in front of her and put my fingers into the top of the waistband of her panties and she opens her eyes and looks at me with a kind of scared look in her eyes.

     I pull her panties down over her legs and drop them onto the floor.

     She asks, “Do you have any condoms?”, in a quavering voice.

     I take one off of the shelf of the nightstand and tear it open and roll it down.

     I’m rock hard and I lean over on top of her.

     I clutch my rod in my right hand and slip it between her p***y lips and find the entrance to her vaginal passage.

     I try to push it into her but I can’t.

     Either I’m too big or she’s too small.

     It feels like her c**t is clenched like a fist.

     I try and try and she winces and sucks in air through her clenched teeth.

     It’s just not f*****g happening.

     Try clenching your fist.   Then try pushing your dick into it if you have one.

     Not too f*****g easy is it?

     I start going rubbery, which just doesn’t help the situation.

     She asks me, “What’s the matter?”.

     I tell her, “I don’t think it’s gonna happen, babe.”.

     She looks disappointed and says, “I’m really results oriented.”.

     Who says something like that at a time like that?

     I take off the condom and I put my right hand on her pubic mound and slip my thumb into her.

     She f***s my thumb breathing hard and gasping and moaning like she’s having sex.

     And she clenches my thumb so hard when she cums I couldn’t pull my thumb out at that moment if I wanted to.

     My thumb now knows what a dog’s dick feels like.

     I figured maybe we could try again but she rolls over on her side and curls into the fetal position and starts sobbing.

     I start go into the bathroom and take a leak and when I get back she’s composed herself and she’s looking around for her clothes.

     I get dressed while she gets dressed and then we leave and I drop her off at home.

     At her place she opens the car door and steps out then leans in and kisses me on the cheek and says, “Thank you.”.

     I say, “See you.” and looked out the windshield.

     She closed the door and I drove away into the night.

 

     Now that the rules have changed I should really give her a call.

     I bet she’d be a lot of fun after I put a couple of shish-kabob skewers into her eyeballs.

     But maybe I should just leave her be.

     She’s had enough of a rough time in this lifetime.

 

     I ran out of girls that I had already dated or known from high school or college.

     Some didn’t have MySpace profiles and some were in relationships and some were just not interested.

     It happens.

 

     I jazzed up my profile and started to try to talk up some new girls.

     And by jazzed up, I mean streamlined.

     You’ve got to look at your profile objectively.

     Think about the best way to lay it out to make it look cool and kind of detached.

     Like you don’t even care about MySpace but you just happen to accidentally have an awesome profile anyway.

     One of the secrets is not accepting people’s stupid f*****g comments.

     Just keep the really f*****g cool ones.

 

     I found this girl that lived about a half hour away.

     She had some nice profile pictures and she looked like a doll.

     Short black hair that framed her face, big blue eyes, wide cheekbones and a tiny mouth.

     I checked out her profile and I saw that she was into David Lynch films so I sent her a message like, “Hey.   Found you by accident.   We should hang out and watch Blue Velvet.   Maybe make some napalm.   Later.”

     She bit and we made plans.

     I drove out to get her and when I pulled up in front of her house I called her cell phone she came out.

     She looked like she was sixteen and had a Hello Kitty shirt on.

     Don’t worry.   She was twenty-two.   She just looked sixteen.

     Normally dressing yourself up to look younger than you are freaks me out and I’m not into ironic panties with cartoon characters printed on them or girls that dress up like Strawberry Shortcake or Alice in Wonderland on Halloween, but this girl was cute and she pulled it off.

     We make small talk on the ride back.

     When we get back to my place I showed her down into the basement and she dropped her bag off.

     I asked her if she wanted a drink and she said sure, and I went upstairs to the kitchen where the big refrigerator was.   She followed me up and I laughed and said hey.   She said, “I always watch when people make my drinks.”   I shrugged, I didn’t care.

     I made us both these awesome drinks I designed.   Amaretto sours with freeze pops as ice-cubes.

     I let her pick which one she wanted and we went back downstairs.

     We settled in on the bed like it was a futon and I put in ‘Suspiria’.

     We both kind of drink our drinks and watch the movie just laying there, each with our own stack of pillows behind us.   The movie ends and I we’d finished our drinks.   I looked over at her and said, “Another?”.   She dove on me and starts kissing me hard.   She climbs up and straddles me and she’s kissing me hard and humping me and making gaspy noises.

     I grab the bottom of her shirt and she puts her arms up and I rip it over her head.   She’s got pale skin and a smooth black bra on and it looks really hot.   She grabs my shirt and rips it off of me and we make out hard some more.   I push her back and I grab the top of her jeans and fumble with the buttons, ripping them open.   She grabs the front of my jeans and pops the button and zips it down and my bulge bulges out.

     She pulls my underwear down to the base of my c**k and starts jerking me off with her right hand and panting, watching her hand jerking me off.

     The waistband of my underwear is strangling my balls, so I lift my but and slip my jeans down to my thighs.

     The turns and makes out with me hard while jerking me off.

     I slide my right hand around to the back of her head and clench my fist full of her hair.

     She gasps and dives down on my dick with her mouth and immediately deep throats it, getting as much of its length into her mouth as she can until it hits the back of her throat and obstructs her windpipe.

     There were still a couple inches of shaft between her lips and my body.

     Oh well.   “A” for effort.

     I keep my fist clenched in her hair and she bobs her head up and down quickly and passionately.

     If she didn’t know how to keep my c**k away from her teeth it would have been excruciating but she obviously had some skills and it was pretty good.   Not the best but better than most.

     I let her go for a while and then I push her off me and she lands on her back to the left of me.

     I grab the waist of her pants to pull them off her and she says, “Wait!   I’m all fuzzy.”

     I look at her like she’s retarded and I yell, “I don’t care!” and she lifts her butt so I can whip her pants off.   She’s not wearing any underpants which is wicked hot.

     I roll of the bed and let my pants drop onto the floor and step out of them.

     She says, “Do you have any condoms?”, and I reach over and grab one, tear it open and roll it on.

     While I’m putting it on she masturbates and sighs and moans.

     I get on the bed on my knees and I pull her arms up and reach around and unclasp her bra.   She slips out of it and her tits are nice, but smaller than I thought they would be.   F*****g padded bras.

     I push her down onto the pillows and I got on top of her.

     I didn’t even have to use my hand to get my dick into her.   She was sopping wet and it slid right in.

     She made a moaning sound and I just started f*****g pounding her.

     She was really into it and really vocal.   She kept up gasping and moaning and saying dirty sexy things.

     She had a small tight vagina and it felt awesome sheathed around my dick.

     She came and when she came she clenched her teeth and breathed hard through them and winced.

     I pulled my hips back and my dick out of her and she rolled over onto her knees and I flopped onto my back and she flipped a leg over me.   Most of the time when a girl straddles you she kneels and rests her inner thighs on your outer thighs and rocks back and forth, swishing your rod inside her like a big fleshy swizzle stick.   It probably feels pretty good for the girls because that’s what they all do, but although it feels nice for me too, it doesn’t feel as good as the old back and forth and in and out.

     That’s what most girls do, but not this one.   She perched up on her feet and got my head into her and she rode up and down my dick, clenching her a*s on the ride up and driving me quickly, deeply into her on the way down.   It was f*****g great and if I remember her for nothing else, I’ll remember her for that little trick.

     It felt great and I had to wince and clench my teeth to not cum.

     I held out until she got tired and slumped over and I shoved her off of me over to my left.

     She hit the bed and I sprang up onto her knees and spread her knees and straddled her right leg and entered her sideways.   Her torso was twisted and her face was in the pillows and I could hear her gasping and moaning and talking dirty sexy into the pillows.   I fucked her as hard and fast as I could like a f*****g pissed-off porn star.   I came and yelled, “F**k!   Yeah!” and she made “Uh!” sounds while my c**k pulsed inside her.

     When I stopped cumming I pulled out and got up off the bed and walked over to the trash basket.   I milked the last trickle of jizz out of my shaft and slipped the condom off and dropped it into the trash.

     She was crumpled up like a comforter, passed out and I just flopped down beside her and smoked a cigarette and went to sleep.

     I woke up shortly before she did and we laid around naked for a while and then we fucked again in the dim light coming in through the windows near the ceiling of the basement.

     We took a shower together and made out in the coursing water and she blew me and I came in her mouth and she swallowed.

     I drove her home and we made plans to hang out a week later when we both had a day off.

 

     I drive out to pick her up and when I call she comes out.

     She’s wearing a miniskirt and a babydoll t-shirt with the Beau Batons logo on it.

     You know, from those Harry Potter books?

     Like I said, it would be pretty creepy if it wasn’t so f*****g cute.

     She opens the door and tosses her bag in the back and hops onto the bench seat.

     I say, “You look nice.” And she smiles and kisses me like she means it.

     I drive off and while I use my left hand to steer I use my right hand to play with her exposed knees, then her thighs.   Then when I got up to where her legs meet I discover she’s not wearing anything underneath her skirt.   Sexy.   I pet her until she gets wet then I put a couple fingers in her.   She tilts her pelvis up and f***s my fingers while I f**k her with them.   She moans and gasps and talks sexy dirty and grimaces and winces and cums as is her style.   She tries to go down on me and she manages to get my dick out, but the elastic on my underwear is strangling my balls and I can’t cum unless I close my eyes and concentrate so I pull her off me and say, “It’s okay, babe.   I don’t want to drive us off the f*****g road.”

     We get back to my place and we’re all over each other.   We don’t need any drinks or movies to pretend like we’re not hanging out to have sex.

     After the f*****g we watch a couple movies and drink tall cold glasses of water to rehydrate.

     The next morning she breaks out the Invader Zim boxed set and we watch it all the way through.   She loves them and I had never seen them so it’s a lot of fun for us both.

     She notices that I have an X-Box and Soul Caliber so she talks some s**t about our video game skills, but I thrash her resoundingly in straight sets.   This pisses her off and she gets a little bitchy and sulky.   Maybe I should have let her win a few rounds, but when you play a lot of video games you can tell when someone’s taking it easy on you and the implicit condescension only pisses you off even worse.

     I decide to break us out of the house and we go get some food and although she doesn’t apologize, she stops being such a fussy little b***h.

     The next week was more of the same.

     She brought over Final Fantasy Tactics and the Firefly boxed set.

     Final Fantasy Tactics is awesome and I had a great time playing it, but she kept getting pissed off and complaining that I wasn’t playing it right.

     Firefly just sucked.   I mean it wasn’t awful, but it was pretty silly.   The acting wasn’t very strong except for Nathan Phillian, and the scenario was just unimaginative.   I’d make jokes at the expense of the show and that would really piss her off, but I still thought it was funny and we still fucked.

     She told me that she liked being choked and didn’t mind getting fucked in the a*s every now and again and that she wanted to own a house with a basement and keep Asian girls in cages in the basement.   I said, “Hey!   I have a house with a basement!”   And she thought I was kidding, and maybe at the time I was, but maybe if she was serious, then we could have fulfilled that fantasy for her.

     I mean Asians in cages isn’t any worse than any of the other fucked up s**t I got up to.

     That night I tried choking her while we had sex.   I didn’t really know how to do it right and I didn’t want to accidentally choke the life out of her.   Plus choking her really didn’t do anything for me.   I fucked her in the a*s too, but it was weird.   It took a while for me to get it in and it wasn’t so much like I fucked her a*s as it was I pried my c**k into her and she masturbated while it was inside her until she came and I could feel the first seven inches of her insides squeeze around me while she came.   I tried to f**k her a*****e after she came, but she wouldn’t let me, she pushed me the f**k off of her.

     Since she was pretty kinky and I didn’t feel up to choking her I decide to try to make it up to her by planning an S & M session for her.

     I made up a shopping list while at work.

     I had a desk job at the time.   I had a lot of time on my hands to daydream.

     It’s not that the job wasn’t demanding, it’s just that I have an uncanny knack for figuring out how to quickly adapt to most jobs to streamline my work flow so that I get everything done efficiently.

     That’s why I refuse to work any job where when you’re done your work, they just give you more work to do.   I get fired a lot, because my supervisor or my boss or whatever will stop by and I’ll be sitting at my desk, clocking hours, not looking busy.   It’s not like I can leave, because I’m getting paid to be there.  

They ask me what I’m doing, and I say “Just hanging out.”   They say, “Why don’t you do something?”   I say, “All my work is done.”   They say, “Well, Jesus, at least try to look busy!   You’re making us look bad here!”  and they walk off, with this look on their face that’s half confusion, half-disgust.    A couple rounds of that and they call you into their office and ask you to close the door behind you and they fire your a*s.

I can’t fake being busy and you never get promoted for that s**t.    Maybe I’ve been outsmarting myself all of these years.    Maybe all of the other employees that are always behind on their work are just actors, pretending to have difficulty working at the pace I’m working at, but instead they’re smarter than I am, because they ration their work out throughout the day so that they always look busy.

     So I’m at work and I’m looking busy coming up with ideas for the list.

     Someone recommended I check out “Sick: The Life & Death of Bob Flanagan” a couple years back and I liked it so much I bought my own copy on DVD.   That little movie gave me a few ideas.

     I fantasized about what I was planning on doing to the girl and what props I’d need.

     I wrote down:

-Duct tape / scissors / neckties

-‘Chant’ CDs / ‘Dead Can Dance’

-Candles / Ice cubes

-Pins / Alcohol Swabs

-Dull knife / sharp knife / matte knife

-Drano

 

     The Drano was for the drains, not the girl.   They were draining a little slow lately.   Probably all the girl- hair she was washing down there.

     Early in the day I check off everything on the list and make sure I’ve got it all close to the bed so I won’t have to go fumbling around for anything.

     That night I went out to pick her up and we did the usual “me putting fingers into her while driving” thing.   We get back to the house and she drops off her bag.   She’s standing in front of the bed and I point at her and say, “Stay!”.   She smiles and scoffs and says, “Why?”.   For someone that claims to be a submissive she was really defiant.   I said, “Because I f*****g said so, that’s why.”

     I reach over and unzip her skirt and it falls to the floor.   She’s watching me and grinning and looking me in the eyes, so I decide to deprive her of that.   I grab the duct tape and I cut a swath and pat it over her eyes.   I grab the bottom of her shirt and she puts her arms up as I pull it up so I can slip it off her.

     I grab her left shoulder with my right hand and spin her, and she wobbles for a second and then finds her balance.   I unhook her bra and she slips it off and it falls into the heap with her shirt and skirt.

     I flip her back around and push her backwards onto the bed.   I tell her, “Take your boots off.” and she complies.

     I take my t-shirt off and I’m wearing a muscle shirt underneath.   I want to be comfortable while I work.   I don’t get naked because this isn’t about sex.   At least not intercourse.   At least not right away.

     When she gets her boots of and sits up I push her shoulders back and she lands on her back.   I grab her ankles and swing her legs over so that she’s in the center of the bed, all naked before me.

     I get up and leave her waiting.   Anticipation is an important ingredient.

     I take out a stick of Nag Champa incense and light it, blow it out and place it to smolder in a holder.

     I go over to my computer and I click on a playlist I set up for the session which is a random mix of Dead Can Dance and Chant CDs.

     I pick up a dull knife with a slightly sharp point and climb onto the bed.   I grab her ankles and open her legs and I kneel between them.   I lean over her and support myself with my left arm and move the knife up to her face next to her left eye with my right hand.   She flinches at first when it touches her face.   I put the tip against her and drag the knife down her cheek to her chin, with just enough pressure to raise a welt, but not break skin.   She asks, “Knife?”.   I don’t want her f*****g double-guessing me or even really talking at all for the matter, but I let it go.   I put the tip on her neck, under her ear and drag it down to her collarbone.   She sucks in air through her clenched teeth.   I switch the knife to my left hand and trace a complimentary line on the right side of her neck.

     I switch back to my right hand and put the tip of the knife at the top of her breastbone and push in until it’s about to break the skin, then I drag it down the center of her breastbone, over her navel, and down to just above her pubic mound.   She arches her back in response to the blade, and arches it again when I drag the blade back up to the top of her chest.

     I take the knife and I put the tip on her ribcage behind or beneath her left breast.   I drag the tip, curving along the line of her ribs, underneath her breast into the center of her chest, then did a slow, welt-raising spiral around her left breast, nearing her n****e which would be the center.

     I didn’t scrape her n****e with the knife.   Her n****e was as hard as it could be in anticipation of the knife tip, so I grabbed an ice cube from the small bowl of ice cubes and pressed it against the tip of her n****e.   She gasped and said, “Ice!”.   I was sick of her second guessing me so I slapped her in the face.   My right hand to her left cheek.   I didn’t do it very hard, so it was more like a pat.   I didn’t want to really hurt her and slapping girls in the face wasn’t really something I was into.   But she got the message.

     I did the same thing to her right side and breast, then I knee-walked a little bit down.

     I put the tip of the knife on her abdomen about navel height and dragged the knife down the top of her right leg, all the way down to the top of her foot.   She knew she had to control the urge to respond to the tickling or the knife would break her skin.   On the way back up I did the inside of her leg, up the side of her calf, slowing down after I passed her knee, stopping at the seam where her thigh met her trunk.   Same thing with the left leg.

     I took the knife and put the tip on her perineum.   You know that place between you legs that that’s not your genitals, but isn’t your a*****e?   I dragged the knife up along the left side of her outer vaginal lips which were a bit puffy from arousal, but still were flat enough to drag the knife up.   I could see between her lips glistening with p***y drool with a little sliver of her pink interior.   I dragged the knife back down the right side of her p***y lips.   I thought about slipping the knife inside her like a sheathe, and f*****g her with it a little, but the tip was sharp and I didn’t want to hurt her.   Plus I still wanted to f**k her, and stabbing her in the c**t would probably mean a trip to the hospital.

     Instead I knee-walked back and grabbed her ankles and crossed my arms over, right over left or left under right, whichever you prefer and flipped her over onto her stomach.

     I put her ankles together which closed her legs and I straddle-walked up on my knees till I was sitting on the backs of her thighs.

     I had a raging, pulsing, rock-hard hard-on and I really wanted to get naked and sandwich it, cradled in her a*s cheeks but I resisted the impulse, preferring discipline.   I didn’t want to be distracted by the urge to penetrate her while I was working.

   I switched the dull-bladed knife for a matte knife.   You know, the kind you use to cut linoleum?   I leaned down and whispered into her ear, “Be careful.   This one’s really sharp.”

     I lightly traced a line from the place in her neck where here hairline ended down her spine.   Since the blade was so sharp I didn’t have to press at all, I just held the blade loosely and dragged it and it raised welts which were deep enough that every now and then some little droplets of blood would rise.

     I made about a dozen lines from her shoulders down to her lower back.

     Then I straddle-walked down on my knees so I was perched over her ankles and dragged a few lines from her lower back, down over her butt, and down the center of each leg.   She wriggled when the blade was being dragged over her a*s and when it went across her hamstrings.

     I moved back up and sat on the back of her knees and asked, “Ready?”

     I slowly, line by line, carved the word W***E in capital letters across the small of her back.

     Like a f*****g tramp stamp.

     I didn’t cut it deep enough so that I could see the inside of her skin, mind you.

     Just deep enough so that it drew blood and I knew it would scab up and leave a mark for a while.

     Maybe it would scar.   Maybe it wouldn’t.   What the f**k did I care?

     When I was done, I got up off of her and closed the matte knife and grabbed her ankles and flipped her onto her back.

     I grabbed a few pins from the little clear plastic box of them on the nightstand and an alcohol swab from the little stack of them I stole from the First Aid Kit at work.   I clamped the pins between my lips and I tore open the alcohol patch, extracting the damp little cotton square.   I rubbed it in a little circle on a spot on her abdomen a couple inches under her left ribline.

     I took one of the pins from between my lips and pinched it between my right thumb and forefinger.   I hunched down and put the point of the pin against her skin.   I pushed the pin in and it went into her skin and she cried out like a whimper.   I tried to push the pin through so it poked out, but it wanted to go straight into her abdomen.   I repositioned the pin and pushed up a little ridge of skin and pushed the pin with a steady pressure until it popped out the other side of the ridge I had pushed up.   A tiny bead of blood came out of either hole and the bump of skin was pink in contrast to the pallor of the rest of her abdomen.   I was satisfied with the way it came out, to I wiped a circle on around the same spot under her right ribline.

     I did the same thing and I did it repeatedly, making a line about four to six pins going down from her ribcage to her waistline.   I made sure to put them in going side to side instead of up and down because I didn’t want them cutting into me in case I decided to f**k her while they were still in.

     When I finished my pattern, I sat back to admire it.   I had broken a sweat.   Pushing those pins through wasn’t f*****g easy.   I grabbed an ice cube and rubbed it between my hands till they were a little damp and cool and I wiped my left hand across my forehead and held the ice-cube in my right hand and dabbed it on top of each little pink bump of skin, hoping to ease the pain she was no doubt experiencing a little.   I wasn’t thinking ahead, because that probably made them hurt even worse when I took the pins out.

     I took them out in the order that I put them in, pinching the head and drawing them out.   It must have hurt, because each time I took one out she would hiss, sucking air in through her teeth and whimper a little.

     When I got all of the pins out, I tore open another alcohol pad and wiped the welts.   That must have hurt too because there was more hissing and some writhing.   But hey, I just didn’t want the little wounds to get infected.

     I threw the alcohol pad aside and grabbed her ankles and flipped her back onto her stomach.

     The blood on her new name tag had started to crust up a little where the congealing hadn’t been rubbed off by her squirming.

     I closed her legs with her ankles again and I grabbed the duct tape and tore off a strip about two feet.

     I held the strip of tape between my teeth and grabbed her right arm by the wrist and pulled it down behind her to the small of her back.   I held her arm at the small of her back with my right and grab her left wrist with my left hand and bring it down across her right wrist.   I hold them both in place with my left hand against the small of her back and grabbed the tape from between my teeth with the right.

     I stick the tape to the inside of her left wrist and wrap it tightly around her wrists, cinching them together.

     I grab another strip of tape and I put it over her mouth and pat it down and she huffs through her nose.

     I don’t want to hear her s**t-talking.

     This one’s for me.

     I get up off of her and walk over towards where I keep my clothes.

     I take off my clothes and pick up a black silk necktie.

     I get up on the bed and straddle the outside of the back of her thighs with the inside of mine on my knees.   I angle my dick down and put the head in her.   It’s no problem getting in because she’s all slimey and gooey with p***y drool.

    I get down on top of her and I f**k her hard and steady.

    It’s great.   Warm and wet.   I grab a fistful of her hair and pull the back of her head back, arching her back.   This makes her tighten up and it feels even better.   I f**k her faster and when I feel like I’m getting to where I’m about to cum I let go of her hair and her face hits the pillows and she turns her head to the side and huffs air in and out through her nose.

     I reach over and grab the necktie and wrap it around her neck.   I warp it around once and hold the loose ends in my right hand.   I pull the ends back and her head comes back.   Just tight enough that she can move her head around to relieve the pressure if she needs to.   My dick is still all greased up with her lubricating juices and I put the tip against her a*****e.   She makes an “Mph!” sound which could be an objection but I don’t care.   She said she likes it in her a*s every now and then, I’m just making her put her money where her mouth is.   Well, not exactly, but you get the idea.

     I squeeze my dick into her, accompanied by some more “Mph”-ing, and I feel my rod pry her a*****e open.   I think I’d be able to tell if I accidentally broke her a*****e.   After I get the head in, the shaft’s no problem, but I let it sink in slowly until my abdomen is pressed against her a*s and my balls are resting on her pressed together thighs.

     I f**k her a*****e smoothly and slowly matching my rhythm to my breathing.   I’m in no rush.  It feels great.   For me, at least.   I take a nice long time, gradually picking up the pace and pulling gradually tighter on the ends of the tie like a bridle.   I really put the spurs to her, f*****g her a*s like I usually f**k her p***y, bringing it out till just the head is in, then driving it back in.    I feel my orgasm approaching and I pull the ends of the tie so her head is arched all the way back.   Her body tightens up and she writhes and bucks and then it sounds like she’s holding her breath as I cum in her a*s.

     When I finish cumming inside her I let go of the tie and her head boofs into the pillows.

     It takes me a minute to notice that she’s not moving.   Or breathing.

     I gasp, “S**t!” and I flip her over and pry the tie off of her neck.

     Her body’s all slack, but still warm, I rip the tape off of her eyes and she’s got raccoon eyes from her mascara and her eyes are half-closed and sort of rolled back into her head.

     I slap her across the face to try to bring her around, but her head just lolls over.

     I pinch her nose and put my mouth over hers and I blow a deep breath into her mouth.

     I feel her lungs inflate and her chest rise and her n*****s come up and touch my chest but she’s still out and her tongue is just lolling about in her slack mouth.

     I give her another breath but that doesn’t work and I hear myself say, “Come on!   Come on!” like they do in the TV shows.

     I wonder if I’m going to have to start giving her f*****g chest compressions and give her another breath.

     Her eyes pop open and she jerks to life and I get off her and she starts wheezing in air and coughing and her hands shoot up and massage her throat.

     I’m sitting on the bed and I say, “Jesus Christ!   I thought you were f*****g dead.”

     She doesn’t say anything, she just breathes heavily, swallowing audibly every now and then until she catches her breath.

     I say, “Man, I am so sorry.”, but she just gets up and walks over to the bathroom.

     I shrug and reach for my cigarettes.

     I’m not gonna go chasing after her.

     She’s naked and she doesn’t have a car.   Where’s she gonna go?

     I lay down on the bed with an arm behind my head and the ashtray on my stomach.

     I hear the bathroom fan.   Then the toilet flush.   Then the sink running.

     She comes out of the bathroom, turning off the light and the whirring sound stops.

     The chant music is still playing in the background and the air is smoky.

     Her face has some color in it and she washed the mascara out of her eyewells.

     I was looking at her face, but she wouldn’t meet my look.

     She just climbed into bed and pulled the covers over her shoulder, curling up with her back to me.

     That was a new one.   Usually she slept draped all over me like a cat and I’d wake up and her face would be in my armpit and I’d laugh to myself.

     Whatever.

     I finished my cigarette, pulling hard on the last drag and snubbed it out, reached over and put the ashtray on the nightstand and pulled the chain on the bedside lamp and went to sleep.

     The next morning I woke up first and puttered around.   Got on my computer.   Checked my e-mail, MySpace, whatever.

     She slept in.   Either that or she had died overnight, but I figured I’d know it.

     I went upstairs and made some pop tarts, chocolate filled chocolate with chocolate icing, and washed them down with a cool glass of lowfat chocolate milk.

     While I was upstairs I could hear her get up and fumble around downstairs.

     I figure maybe she was waiting till I left my room to get up.

     I wash of my plate and wash out my glass in the sink and rack them in the dying rack and go downstairs.

     She’s sitting on the edge of my bed, fully dressed with her bag over her shoulder.

     I say, “What’s up, Sleepy McSleepypants?”, and laugh.

     She doesn’t look my way or even respond.

     I shrug it off and say, “Whatever.   Fine.   Be that way.   You want to go home?”

     She gets up and walks to the door and I grab my car keys.

     When I get to the top of the stairs she’s at the side door and when I walk over she opens the door and goes out and I get through the door before the screen door closes and she’s walking over to the passenger door of my car.

     I key in and reach over and unlock her door and she settles in and just looks straight out the windshield at the fields behind my house.

     I start the car and take her home.   She’s sulky and silent and distant the whole way home.

     When I pull up to her house she gets out, then leans back in and kisses me and says, “See you next week.” But her eyes are flat and expressionless.

     I’m on the highway on the way back home wondering what the f**k is up with the crazy b***h when my cell phone rings and it’s her.

     I answer and she says, “Are you on your way home?”.   I reply, “Yeah.”

     She says, “I don’t think things are working out.”

     I say, “Really?   Fine.   Whatever.   The least you could have done was tell me back at my place so I wouldn’t have to drive back and drop off your stuff.”

     She says, “I already have it.   I took everything with me.”

     I laugh and say, “You sneaky b***h!”

     She says, “I’m sorry.”

     I just laugh and say, “Look.   Whatever.   Have a nice life.” and I hang up.

     I get back home and sure enough, she took all of her stuff.   I didn’t give a s**t about Firefly.   That show sucked anyway.   I was just pissed because I was, like, halfway through Final Fantasy Tactics.   A couple years later Tactics came out for the PSP and I bought one and played it through.   So f**k her.   I win.

 

     So now I’m single so I go back to the MySpace.

     There was a chick on my “Friends” list that I used to pal around with in college.

     I took a couple film classes because I was in the film society and I figured it was an easy way to fill in some of my distribution classes.

     Sc-Fi.   Horror.

     I practically made up the curriculum for the horror class because the instructor was an a*****e that didn’t know a thing about horror.   I mean he pronounced “Dracula” “Draculer” and “Van Helsing” “Van Hesling”.   I mean what the f**k?

     Anyway, this chick was in both of my classes.   I set my mind on her the first day I saw her.

     She had long dark red hair and pale skin and she dressed like Mia Wallace in Pulp Fiction.   You know, tight black slacks and white button up blouses with dark bras you could sort of see through her blouses.

     You know I like redheads, so she just made me f*****g crazy.   I was all up on her, but so was about half of the class.   We’d all sit in the same row as she did.   I managed to score one of the seats right next to her on her right.   I guess I’m some sort of alpha male or something.

     All of us dudes would hang out before class and talk about how hot she was and the things we’d do to her if given the chance and then she’d walk up and we’d all make like f*****g stand-up comedians trying to win points, vying for her attention.

     She f*****g knew it too.   She had to f*****g know it, but she didn’t bother with any of us.

     Years later she told me that all of those dudes that I thought were my friends used to talk s**t about me.   Makes sense when they started getting married and I never got invited to the weddings, but still that sort of insincerity kind of went up my a*s.   I never talked s**t about them to score points.   I don’t have to.   I know how awesome I am.   F**k them.   They’re all married off and gaining weight and losing hair and I’m f*****g girls ten years younger than I am.   Once again, I win.

     I stayed friends with her after the classes were over and we’d go back and forth over IM and send each other wacky stuff on LiveJournal.   She’d always be like, “Man!   I’m so f*****g horny right now!”, and I’d be all, “Alright.   I’m coming right over to get you.”.   But then she’d be all like, “Ugh.   No.   I’m in my jammies.”   Same bullshit.   It was just a f*****g test to see if I’d jump when she whistled.

     I got sick of it after a while and I stopped trying to impress her and just acted the way I usually would.   We started hanging out and going out for some food and drinks.   We didn’t go out to dance clubs because I hate them.   The music always sucks and the bass thumping always gives me a headache.   She dragged me to a couple but there were always guys trying to break her away and I ended up leaning against the wall with a leg up and a beer in my hand wanting to start punching everyone in the face.

     So we’d go to the same couple of bars.   A rock ‘n’ roll bar, and a basement bar with an open mic night and a jazz night, and a Mexican restaurant.   All places with cool, mellow vibes and great music.   Any place with a lot of Johnny Cash and Social Distortion is fine by me.

     The places we could go would dwindle every now and then because she’d get drunk and blow one of the staff and then she wouldn’t want to go back there.   I was pissed.   I mean if she’s going to go around handing out free blow-jobs then where was mine?   I called her out on that point a couple times but she’d always be like, “I don’t want to f**k up our friendship.”, and I’d be thinking, “F**k friendship!   Suck my dick!”   So I stopped buying anything over my half of the drinks.   I figure why am I going to pay to get her liquored up if someone else is going to get their dick sucked?

     One time she’s drunk and she wants to take me to this place she used to play when she was a kid.   I figure we’re going to go back there and f**k, but I was always thinking about sex.   I figured once we got it over with I’d be able to just let it go, but until then.   So we shimmy through this hole in this wooden fence and she takes me to a ledge overlooking a trailer truck depot.   She’s all confused and she says that this all used to be this big open area with big mounds of dirt and she used to run around and play back there like a tomboy.

     We go back to the missing boards in the tall wooden picket fence and I squeeze through okay.   She gets halfway through and then she looks confused and says, “I’m stuck!”.

     She tugs and frees herself and holds her right arm up and says, “My wrist caught on something.”

     We’re both looking at her wrist and there’s a little white hole that just starts leaking blood in a thick stream.   She goes pale and I clamp my right hand over her wrist and I say, “Here’s the deal.   We’re going to the hospital, okay?”.   She nods and she looks like she’s going to cry.

     I keep my hand clamped on her wrist and walk her over to the passenger side of my car.

     We stop and I say, “Okay.   I’m going to let go, and when I let go you’re going to have to put your hand where mine is okay?”.   She’s crying a little and she says, “No.”   I reply, “How am I supposed to drive you to the hospital if I’m holding onto your arm?”.   She laughs and sniffs and says, “Okay.”

    I say, “Okay?   Ready?   One.  Two.   Three!” and on three I pull my hand off and there’s blood like paint on my hand and it’s smeared all over her arm from her wrist to about halfway up her arm to the elbow.   She goes pale and I say, “Stay with me.” And I run around to the driver’s side and unlock the door and hop in and reach over and unlock her door and open it with the handle and push it open for her.

     She gets in and elbows the door closed.

     I take off and I run every red light to the hospital.

     The blood keeps coming and it’s dripping down her arm and off of her elbow onto my upholstery.   She sees the mess she’s making and she says, “I’m so sorry.”.   I laugh and say, “Don’t worry about it.”   She replies, “But blood stains!” and laughs when she realizes that’s the chorus to the Agent Orange song with the same title.   She’s gone f*****g blood simple.

     We get to the hospital and I slam the car into park and hop out and open her door.

     We go into the emergency room and there’s no one f*****g there.

     She raises her arm in the air and yells, “Hello!   I’m bleeding profusely!”.

     An African security guard is standing, watching a television mounted near the ceiling.

     I yell, “Hey!   Fucktard!   Are there any f*****g doctors around here?   My friend needs some f*****g medical attention!”

     The guy just looks at us disinterestedly and tells us in a muddy labile accent to follow the red footsteps painted on the floor.   Like the f*****g yellow brick road.   Things are getting really f*****g surreal.

    We follow the red footsteps and they lead us back out to the lobby.   Incredulously I shout, “Hello!   Is there a doctor in the house?” which makes her laugh.   An overweight nurse waddles over to a computer station behind a window and says, “Can I help you?”.   I reply, “Yes you can f*****g help us!” and I point at my friend who raises her blood streaked arm.

     The nurse just keeps looking at us all bored and gives my friend the pre-treatment interview.

     It takes, like half an hour and then I go with her back to the treatment area and the nurse tells her to sit on a gurney and someone will be in to see us shortly.   My friend and I riff on what a stupid f*****g place this is and, like, half an hour later this guy nurse that looks like Frank Oz comes in and tries to make like he’s a f*****g comedian.   These people are never as funny as they think they are and their feeble attempts at pacifying humor never f*****g work on me.   If I wanted someone to try to make me laugh I’d go home and watch my Denis Leary DVD.

     I figure that my friend’s in good hands and I go to the bathroom to clean myself up.

     I get in the bathroom and step over to the sink.

     I look at myself in the mirror and I’m a little sweaty and disheveled.

     I turn on the water in the sink and I look at the palm of my hand.

     Her blood has soaked into the creases of my hand and looks like a crimson “M”.

     I used to be really superstitious and superstition holds that, in palmistry, if the lines in your hand form an “M” then you’re going to be married in this life.

     I shake off the trance I kind of slipped into and wash my hands and rinse off my face, drying myself off with wads of rough brown industrial paper towels.

     I go out into the waiting room and I’m there for, like, an hour when all of these f*****g ginzos pile in.   They’re all f*****g loud and drunk and I figure out that they just got into a bar fight with another group of retarded ginzos.   They’re all trying to sound like wiseguys but they all just sound like they’ve got a mouthful of dick.   None of them looks that fucked up, and they’re probably not or else they’d have been carried in on a stretcher.   They just decided to all hit the hospital so they can get the scrapes on their knuckles dabbed with iodine.   F*****g babies.   I knew I could dismantle any and all of them and I’m already not in a great mood and I’m getting pretty sick of their bullshit and I start staring down one of the f*****g f*****s and he says to me “What the f**k are you looking at?” and I stand up to go over and break his face when my friend comes out, holds up her arm like the statue of liberty and yells, “Two stitches!”.   Turns out all of that f*****g blood and there’s just a little deep cut that after it was cleaned out, the skin just flapped back in place and they tied it shut with two stitches.   And after all that bullshit the hospital billed her $600 and she refused to pay it.

    She ended up hooking up with some average douchebag one night we’re out and they end up moving in together and we stop hanging out.   She’s all coupled up and watching prime time TV and putting on weight.

     She dumps the guy for being a loser and she’s got a temper and he can’t handle it so now she starts calling me again and wanting to hang out, but I’m busy running my w****s so I blow her off and we keep in touch over MySpace.

     Now I’ve got some free time.

     So we message back and forth and play phone tag and make plans.

     I go to pick her up and she’s wearing the same kind of pants that she used to but a couple sizes bigger.   Her a*s is bigger.   Rounder, but it doesn’t look bad.

     She’s wearing a long-sleeved black sweater with a scoop neck, exposing her collarbones and she’s wearing a slim gold chain with a little pendant of the letter “O”.

     She’s wearing light make-up and she looks nice and she smiles when she gets in the car and jokes about how long it’s been since we’ve hung out.

     I laugh and we’re off.

     We go to the Mexican place we always used to go to.

     To my surprise the girl that I used to have a crush on was still working there.

     My friend and I nicknamed her cowgirl because I said that when she walks her a*s moves like she’s riding an electrical bull on the slow setting and I couldn’t help but imagine her in a garter belt and a pistol belt and a peek-a-boo bra riding my bull and waving a cowboy hat over her head.

     I stopped going to the restaurant when I stopped hanging out with my friend and I didn’t think about the waitress.   I just figured that she’d have moved on to something different by now.

     We get seated and “cowgirl” is our waitress.

     My friend is making silly eyes at me while I’m trying to order and when the waitress leaves I watch her a*s.   My friend goes, “Ooh!” like kids do, and I shoot her a glare.

     We drink.   She was always the faster and heavier drinker.   One time we were out and she finishes her beer and she grabs mine and pushes it up against my lips and says, “Drink it!”.   I take the beer out of her hand and set it on the bar and say, “Look.   If you want to be the pace car, that’s fine by me.   Drink all you want.   But I’m about riding the buzz, not chasing the buzz.”, and that settled things.   After that she just outdrank me and let me drink at my own pace.

     True to form she drinks too much and by the time we get out there she’s slurring and sloppy and stumbling.   She holds onto my arm and leans against me on the way to the car and I’m instantly turned on but I knew if I tried to make out with her she’d just brush me off and laugh.

     We make it to the car and I’m driving her home and she says. “I gotta pee!   Stop the car!”.

     I reply, “F*****g where?”

     She says, “I don’t care.  Wherever.”

     I pull into the empty parking lot of a funeral home and put the car in park.

     She gets out and almost falls over and walks off behind a dumpster.

     I look out the windshield not wanting her to catch me looking back trying to watch her pee hoping to see a part of her naked.

     She comes back to the car and she’s got her shoes clasped in one had and her panties in a wad in the other.

     She slumps into the seat and closes the door and I say, “Everything come out all right?” and she says, “Yeah.” In a sighing voice.   Her head is lolling back and forth on her shoulders, then she tilts it back on the headrest.   The parking lot light is shining in her window on her neck and her exposed collarbones and I’m a little drunk and I can’t resist the urge to reach out and trace my fingertips along her collarbone.   She doesn’t snap awake and laugh at me so I trace my fingers up and down her neck.   She says, “Go ahead.   Touch them.   Do whatever.   I don’t care.”.   I decide tonight’s the night, but not here.

     I put the car in drive and exit the parking lot.

     She notices that we’re not heading to her house and she asks, “Where are we going?” and I answer, “My house.   You haven’t seen it yet.” and she replies, “Okay.” in a little girl voice and her head falls over to the side.

     I pull up alongside my house and turn the car off.   While I’m going around to open her door she tries to open the door and get out but she just sort of leans out and sways.   I get an arm under hers and lift her up.   She’s not completely dead weight, but she keeps losing her footing.

     We get in the side door into the kitchen and I flip on the light.   She looks around and says, “Nice place you’ve got here.” all slurry.   She goes over to the refrigerator and opens the door and takes out a can of soda and pops the top and without drinking it just puts it on the counter and leans against it and I’m just watching her performance and my dick’s still hard.

    She crosses her arms with a little difficulty and asks, “Where’s your room?”.

    I say, “I live in the basement.”.

    She uncrosses her arms and goes over to the door to the basement.   I follow her a couple steps behind.   She stumbles on the third step and falls to her knees like a pile of logs.   It takes her a second to react and then she bursts out laughing like a loon.

     I laugh too and I close the distance between us.   She crawls up my side to stand up and I’m standing on the stair above her and I smile and shove her hard down the stairs.   She goes down until her shoulder and the side of her face hits the wall of the landing.   I walk down the steps and she says, “What the f**k did you do that for?”

     I step over her and down to the stairs below her and I grab her ankles and turn her around and pull her ankles, dragging her down the stairs and her shoulders and head thump down the stairs till they hit the floor on the bottom.   I let go of her ankles and her heels slap the floor.

     The ride down winded her and she’s sort of gasping.

     I go over to the closet and grab a necktie and grab the roll of duct tape off of my desk, slipping it up over my wrist and walk over to her standing over her and I get down on one knee.

     She says “What?”, and I punch her in her right cheek and eye with my right hand.

     Her head ricochets back and smacks the floor.

     She looks all groggy.   Punch drunk.

     I grab her right shoulder with both hands and flip her over and her head knocks against the floor again.

     Oh well, too bad.

     I wrench her arms back.   First her right, then her left and cinch them together at the wrists firmly.

     I get up and go over to my desk and grab a big pair of scissors and stuff them in my back right pocket.

     She’s come around a little when I get back and when I grab her ankles she tries kicking a little, but I’m stronger than her and I get her ankles and drag her over to the center of my oriental carpet.

     Along the way she squirms and flips and screams “What the f**k!”.

     I go with her squirming and when I get her to the center of the carpet I flip her back onto her stomach.

     She’s squirming and huffing and trying to flip back onto her back.

     I get her purse and fish her panties out.   Putting them half in my right front pocket.

     I grab her ankles and flip her over onto her back and she tries to kick at me making “Mph!” sounds each time she kicks.

     I just grin and step around her and step over her trunk dropping to my knees and sitting on her ribcage.

     She tries wriggling around so I punch her in the face again.

     Her head knocks back and I put my hands around her neck and choke her.

     She tries to shake loose, but I’ve got her and I’m squeezing.

     She makes a few strangling sounds and her face flushes and then her breath bursts out and still wincing her head falls back, her mouth partly open breathing shallowly.

     I take her panties out of my pocket and stuff them in her mouth and she makes half coherent mouth noises.   I shake the duct tape down and tear off a strip and put it across her mouth.

     I throw the duct tape roll and get up off of her and flip her onto her stomach again.

     I take the scissors out of my pocket and walk down to her feet.

     I can hear her snuffing through her nose into the carpet.

     I grab the cuff of her right pants leg and I put the scissors in and start cutting up her pant leg.   When I get up to the a*s she tries to move and I punch her in the back of the head and say, “I don’t want to cut you, so stop moving.”   And I really don’t want to cut her, so I’m careful not to stab her with the scissors when working up her a*s.   I cut the waist and the pants slip open and I can see a big slice of her full pale a*s.   I pause to admire my work and then do the other leg.   Her pants have flapped down off the sides and it’s like she’s just wearing a bum flap.

     I get up and she cranes her neck around and shoots me a look.   I spit at her face and say, “What the f**k are you looking at?” and walk down and grab the cuffs of her pants and pull them out from under her.  She wriggles off of them and curls up and tries to sit up.   She looks really pissed.

     I say, “Where do you think you’re going?” and I kick her in the ribs with the toe of my shoe.

     She groans and flops onto her stomach.

     I sit on the backs of her thighs and she’s squirming and trying to kick but it doesn’t faze me.

     I pinch the right cuff of her sweater and slip the scissors in and cut up the back of her sleeve up to the shoulder, then do the same to the left.   Then I grab the bottom of the back of her shirt and cut it up the back to the collar.

     I put my right foot under her right elbow and say, “Over.”.

     She tries to brace herself against me so I take my foot out and stomp on her elbow.   She whines and I put my foot under her elbow again and say, “Over.” again.   I help her flip over and she’s looking at me with these hurt eyes.   Pfft.   Whatever.   I’m done being Mister Nice Guy.

     She’s wearing a pearly lacy demi cup bra.

     I straddle her and lean over and get the scissors under the thick straps on her side and cut them cleanly.   The left, then the right.   I get my finger into the front of her bra and I clench it and rip it off her like a magician doing the table trick.   The bra makes a whipping and snapping sound and it’s loose and I toss it.   Her breasts sit there, white and pink and I just look at them and she watches me looking at them.

     “The flowers are still standing!”

     I get up and I grab her hair and get my hand on the clip in her hair.   I try to get it out but her hair’s all disheveled and there’s still some hair caught in it.

     I yank it out and there’s the sound of hair snapping and she makes an exasperated “Mph!” sound.

     I toss the clip and get a fistful of hair and I stand up and pull the fistful of hair up and I say, ‘Up!”.

     She breathes through her nose and scrambles to stand up and as soon as she gets on her feet I let go of her hair and shove her and she stumbles over to the bed.   The end of the bed knocks her feet out from under her and she falls over onto the bed on her side.

     She wriggles around trying to get off the bed and I yell, “Don’t you f*****g move!” and she stops wriggling, looking around for a way out.

     I pick the scissors up off of the floor and walk over to the bed and put the scissors on the bedside table.

     She’s staring up at me, scared.   I take my shirt off and unbuckle my belt.

     She still looks scared so I take my belt out of the loops and double it up and whip her a*s and thighs with it a half a dozen times.   Each time the belt hits she winces and “Mph!”s.

     I laugh and drop the belt and say, “Now what’s up b***h?” and undo my pants whipping them down onto the floor.  My c**k is sticking straight out and she looks away.

     I climb onto the bed and she turns away from me on her stomach.   I grab a fistful of her hair and crane her head back and lick along the left side of her from where her neck meets her shoulders up over her jaw to the top of her cheek.

     I let go of her hair and she hides turns her face away from me.   I’m on my left side, half on top of her and I reach between her legs.   She tries to squeeze her legs and keep me out but her thighs are soft and I dig between them.   I push my hand up against her p***y and to my surprise it’s a little wet.   I slip my first two fingertips in then drive them all the way inside her.   She’s hot and warm and wet inside and I think she’s getting turned on despite herself.   I take my hand out and rub my fingers and thumb together then put my hand back in.   This time she doesn’t bother trying to keep me out and her legs are a little bit spread.   I put my fingers back in and put my thumb up so the pad is on top of her a*****e.   I f**k her with my fingers, slipping the tip of my thumb in and out of her a*****e.

     I’m getting hot and I take my hand out and roll on top of her putting my c**k between her thighs.  She tries to wriggle away from me but I grab a fistful of her hair and wrench her hair back and hiss, “This is gonna happen.   You owe me.   We can do this the easy way or the hard way.   No which way is it gonna be?”   She looks me in the eyes for a second and I let her head drop and she hides her face in the pillow.

     I put the tip of my c**k against the opening of her c**t and I push it into her.   I figured she’d be loose with all of the slutting around she did but I can feel her insides tight around me as I drill into her.

     I put it all the way in and savor the feeling for a minute.   It felt victorious.

     I start f*****g her slow and deep.   She’s just laying dead, but I don’t care.

     I f**k her like that for about half an hour, just switching up the pace every now and then.   I take my c**k out and get off of her and maybe she thinks I’m done with her but I put my left hand under her left hip and say “Turn over.”   She acts like she doesn’t hear me so I say, “Turn over!” and she turns over.

     She’s lying on her back and she’s looking up at the wall behind her head.   I put my hands under her knees from the outside and lift them up, the I slip my hands under her knees, up to my elbows and fold her up so her c**t is facing towards me and I move my hips forward and get myself into her.   I piledrive her and it’s everything I thought it would be, except when I used to imagine it, she was smiling luridly and stage whispering sexy dirty and urging me on, but the difference doesn’t take a lot out of it.   I f**k her for a nice long time, quickly moving back and forth and smacking my pelvis against hers.   It makes a great sound and I’m so turned on and when I cum it’s like my entire consciousness is focused in my dick pulsing inside her.

     I let her legs down and I pull out of her and I kneel in front if her and I watch my cum start to dribble out of her and I realize that I fucked up.   There’s no way she’s gonna let this slide.

     Maybe she won’t call the cops or press charges, but I came inside her, and what if she gets pregnant?   And either way there’s going to be this chick out there that’s going to be pissed off at me for the rest of her life.

     I get up and go to the bathroom and take a piss and splash my face with some cool water and look at myself in the mirror.   I’m looking to see if I look like I’m guilty.   I realize that’s just retarded and I crack a wry grin at my reflection.   I don’t feel guilty.   I feel great.   I know what I have to do, but I might as well get my use out of her first.

     I come back into the room and she’s still on her back on the bed.   She’s not even looking around and she looks kind of dazed.   I guess she’s just waiting for it to be over.   Waiting for me to cut her loose and try to apologize and offer her one of my shirts and some sweatpants and offer to take her home and drop her off so she can take a shower and cry.   She’s got another thing coming.

     I pick up the shredded remains of her sweater on the way back to the bed.   I wipe all of the goo off of the outside of her c**t with the rag and then throw it on the floor.   It’s great to have what I’ve wanted for so long.   I wish she wasn’t all bound up but it can’t be helped now.   I run my hands allover her body and I can feel how smooth and warm it is and I start to get hard again.   I squeeze her breasts with my hands and lick and suck the n*****s.   I’m not trying to get her turned on, it’s just something I want to do.   I lie on my side next to her and reach in between her legs and open her outer lips with my fingertips.   I slide a couple fingers into her and it’s easy because she’s still a bit glisteningly damp.   I get the third finger in and she shifts a little uncomfortable and I wedge the fourth finger in and she winces and huffs through her nose.   I try to get my whole hand in there like she’s a f*****g Yoda puppet and it’s just not happening.

     I sit up and grab her left leg and roll her over and she rolls over without a fight, probably figuring that when I’m done with her I’ll be done with her.   I get up and grab a necktie from my closet and come back to the bed.   I loosely drape it around her neck and I can tell she’s kind of holding her breath to where this is going.   I straddle her, sitting on the back of her thighs and I stuff my c**k between her legs and rub it against just inside her p***y until it gets nice and slick then I slide it up to her a*****e and I put the tip of the head in the center of her a*s and push my dick inside her.   This also feels great and I love the way her soft a*s feels against my lower abdomen.   I f**k her a*****e slowly for, like, an hour because I’m not in any rush because I just blew a load and I figure this is the last fun I’m going to have with her.

     When my balls start to feel tight and I fell like I’m going to cum I pull the tie tight and yank her neck back.   She starts struggling, but she’s pretty exhausted after all of the bullshit she’s been through.   She’s wriggling around and it feels great and I’m pulsing inside her and her a*****e is clenching and she’s puffing out her nose.

     After the last pulse I hold her reigned back for a few seconds for good measure.

     My balls feel warm and wet and when I look down I realize that her bladder let go and there’s a puddle of piss soaking into the mattress.   I yell, “F**k!” and let go of the ends of the tie and the top of her torso boofs into the pillows.   I go over to the bathroom and wash my genitals off in the sink and then splash some water on my face.   My face is still not the face of a guilty man.

     I go back into the room and she hasn’t moved.   I casually put my clothes on and I think things out.

     There’s an old septic tank in the backyard.   It’s a cement bottle around eight feet deep and six feet wide.   The top of it is covered with, like, a mini-manhole cover.   It’s pretty nearly flush to the ground, but sticks up just enough to be a nuisance if you wanted to cut the grass.   Whenever I mowed the lawn I had to go around it and it broke up the nice smooth lines and that always kind of pissed me off.

     The house isn’t connected to that tank anymore.   The pipes probably got choked off by roots or rusted closed or whatever.

     There’s a newer septic tank made out of PVC piping and whatever, and all you can see of that one is, like, a PVC pipe sticking out of the concrete at the back of the house.   Probably for pumping or whatever, but I’ve never had any problems with it.

     Okay.   So there’s that.

     There’s a door in the wall of the basement and it opens up to the bulkhead and the bulkhead opens up to the backyard so it’s a pretty straight shot.

     I open up the door and open the bulkhead from the inside.   The night outside is still and dark and I can hear crickets chirping all around.

     I go over to the bed and grab her by the ankles.   I think about just picking her up an my arms and carrying her, but I don’t want to get pee on my clothes, and god forbid she snaps back to life, I’d have a f*****g stroke!

     I drag her across the floor on her back to the bottom of the stairs of the bulkhead.   I walk her up the stairs, like you move an extended ladder, rocking side to side while stepping backwards.   Outside, in the dark, her chest and face are dragging in the dirt.   I get her to near the lid of the old septic tank and I realize that I’ve never opened it up before.   I leave her there and the light from the bulkhead is spilling out into the dark and I think, “Oh f**k.   Mosquitoes are gonna get in.” while I go around to the side of the house to where my car is parked.

     I unlock the trunk and fish out the crowbar for the hubcaps and heft it in my right hand and close the trunk lid with my left.

     I walk back over to her and the lid and I pop the lid.   It gives pretty easy and with a little grunt I get it over to the side.

     I look down into the hole and all I see is darkness.

     I flip her over and she looks all scuffed up and dirty but even then under the fingernail paring of a moon’s light she still looks pretty.   It’s a shame she’s dead.   We could have had some fun, but I’m not into corpses.   That’s just icky.

     S**t?   Piss?   Dead bodies?   No thanks.   I’m all set.

     I grab her under her arms and I slide her body over so her head is in the hole and it tilts back into the darkness with her shoulders on the edge.   It would have made a great picture.

     I straddle her over the torso in front of the opening and kind of feed her into the hole.   First her shoulders slide in and her arms slump in and down, then her back arches and her butt catches on the rim and one last push and her butt clears the edge and in she goes with her legs wagging like a fish tail.   She hits the bottom like a pile of laundry landing on a pile of leaves.

     I stand up and catch my breath, then look down at the black opening and then up at the moon and then I put the lid back on and take the crowbar with me and go back in the bulkhead closing it behind me.

     Back in the basement I look around and realize that I’ve got some more s**t I have to get rid of so I gather up all of her things and I put them all in a shopping bag and that finished I stop and wipe my brow and I’m startled to realize that my hands smell like her.   That was surreal.

     I decide not to go back through the bulkhead and instead to go out the side door.

     I pop the lid again and for a split second I expect her to leap out at me like a tiger through a f*****g hoop but that’s just stupid.   She’s f*****g dead and the tank is eight feet deep.   I hold the bag over the hole and drop it.   Swoosh!   Nothing but net.   I can’t tell if the bag hits her when it lands.   I think, “Insult to injury.”, and chuckle to myself while putting the lid back on.

     Back inside I get naked and take a shower.

     I go to lay down and get some sleep and I remember the piss on the mattress.

     I strip off the sheet and spray the mattress with disinfectant and figure that ought to do it and flip it over and don’t bother putting on another sheet.   The pillows smell like her hair and it’s a little weird and in some small way makes me miss her.   I think about what I did.   Not that I feel sorry, but I think about the effects.   Will her parents call her in missing?   Will they trace her to me?   Will the cops come by?   Will they know I’m guilty?   Will they search the house?   Will they find her in the septic tank?   I make a conscious decision to stop letting my imagination get away with me.   What’s done is done and there’s no going back.   I would have rather not have killed her, but that’s what happened and chasing myself in circles isn’t going to help anything.   I had a long night, I fell asleep.

     I dreamed that I was asleep and she called my name and I woke up and she’s standing at the end of my bed and she’s all pale and scuffed up and she looks pissed and I’m scared and I feel like I’m suffocating, then I woke up for real and I whipped around to look at the end of my bed and she’s not there and I said, “Whew!”.   Maybe it was guilt.    Maybe it was her ghost.   Either way I went back to sleep and slept till morning.

     The next day at work I kept expecting a couple of cops to show up in the doorway of my office.   Like in TV.   “You have the right to remain silent…”.   “Hey!   Officers!   What’s this about?”.   They slap the cuffs on my wrists, “Anything you say may be used in court against you.   You have the right to an attorney…”.   But they didn’t show up and I just did my work, killing time until they did.

     Each night after work I’d go home and read a book and I expected the cops to come pounding on my door but they didn’t.   Not even a phone call.

     After about a week I kind of shrugged and said f**k it.   If they’re not all over me already then I’m probably scot free.   I figure it’s not worth wasting time over and I decide to go out and get a drink.

     I go to the Mexican restaurant that my friend and I used to go to and it’s weird to be there without her, but it’s refreshing like there’s a weight off of my shoulders.

     I get seated and “cowgirl” was my waitress.   Life was f*****g good.

     She comes over to take my order and she smiles and asks, “Where’s your lady friend at?”.

     I smile and shrug and say, “How the hell should I know?   I’m not the boss of her.”.

 

     I order a Corona Light and the chicken enchiladas and when she drops off the beer I smile and say, “Thank you kindly, ma’am.” and I give her a smile and she smile back and I think I’m hot s**t.   I poke the lime wedged into the bottle and put my thumb over the mouth and tip it upside down so the lime rises to the top and then flip it rightside up and the air puffs out with a little spray like it always does and I drink half the beer in one breath.   Life was f*****g good.

     Cowgirl comes back with the food and I tip the empty beer bottle towards he and she asks, “Another?” and I reply, “You set ‘em up and I’ll knock ‘em back.” and she laughs and rolls her eyes and takes the bottle and comes back with a fresh one.   She turns to leave and I say, “Hey!   Wait a minute!   We never had the chance to talk.   What do you do when you’re not flinging fajitas.”

     She laughs and smiles and says, “I don’t know.”

     I ask, “What do you mean you don’t know?” and she’s standing there with her hands in her pockets and twisting one toe.   F*****g casebook.   I got her hooked.

     I say, “Tell you what.   When this place slows down let’s go out and have a couple drinks.”

     She says, “Um.   I don’t get off until after closing time.”

     I say, “So what?   You’re not allowed to drink after closing time?

     She says, “I gotta go.” and I say, “So?   Go!” and take a swig of beer and smile and raise an eyebrow.

     I eat my food and it tastes great and I have another beer and it tastes great and I get my check and I tip cowgirl $20 and mover over to the bar and the bartender is a f*****g hoot, and we’re trying to one-up each other with bad taste jokes about battered women and dead babies and minorities and I’m only paying for every other beer and I’m ignoring cowgirl because I don’t want to give her the creeps, and it gets to be last call and it’s a few couples, and a bunch of rugby dudes and the staff and me and the couples all take off and the rugby dudes are all friends with the staff so it’s the staff and me and the rugby dudes and it was a good night for the restaurant so the bartender makes a big f*****g pitcher of margaritas and we all split it and I’m all slurry and messy drunk and cowgirl sits on the barstool next to me and she’s all drunk too because she’s been sneaking drinks all night.   Not like she’s really been sneaking them because the bartender set them up for her.   It’s just that kind of place.   The line cooks would take breaks and go out and burn a j and cook stoned and the waitstaff would all do tequila slammers every other trip to the bar and everyone was having a good time.

     We burn through three pitchers of margaritas and the bartender says he ain’t making any more and starts good-naturedly telling people to go home, you a******s, and I know the night can’t last forever.   So I grab my coat and I think I said, “A good evening to you.” to cowgirl and kissed her on the cheek and I drunk walk over to my car and I blearily get the keys into the lock and I drive home on autopilot and when I get home I realize I don’t even remember the drive home and I stagger into the house and plop down on the bed and everything feels warm and fuzzy and I forget all about the septic tank and what’s inside and I fall asleep smiling contentedly.

     I didn’t bother following up on cowgirl.   I’ve never had any luck picking up waitresses.   They get it from all sides every day and now all of the staff know who the f**k I am and whatever.   Maybe that’s just my rationalization for chickening out but whatever, she probably has a boyfriend anyway.

 

     Halloween has always been my favorite time of year as long as I can remember.

     I got a job doing character make-up at this haunted house theme park.

     It was a pretty f*****g big deal and there was a whole crew of make-up people and when we finished doing everyone’s make-up we had to make each other up and fill in for whoever bagged out that night.   The chick from the ‘pit and the pendulum’ scene calls out?   One of us had to go under the blade.   The clown house is missing an emcee?   One of the make-up crew was king clown for the night.

     More often than not it was cool, but sometimes it sucked.

     One night they needed a Dead Elvis.   The Dead Elvis had to stand outside the port-a-johns and make sure no one f*****g vandalized them.   Get it?   Elvis died on the toilet.   Dead Elvis.   Port-a-johns.   Right.   Not exactly f*****g  hilarious.   More like a bad pun.   I knew that gig was gonna suck but I took one for the team.   I split the gig with a girl that was done up like a 1950 style girl-gang zombie.   You know, in a pink satin jacket and whatnot.   The dude that did my make-up sucked and people kept asking me if I was Evel Kneivel.

     The girl-gang outfit had a miniskirt and the chick was cold so I let her sidle up to me and mooch heat.

     We got to talking and she tells me she plays keyboard in, like, a horror rock band and I start to dig her and later on somehow we’re talking sex and she’s like, wondering why more guys don’t want to bang her in the a*s because she really doesn’t mind it, in fact sometimes she likes it, and I figure it’s on and I’m in.

     The night ends and we decide to go back to my place.   We stop at a gas station to get cigarettes and she doesn’t have cash and they don’t take credit unless you spend, like, $20, so I buy her a pack and she kisses me long and hard on the mouth and I get a semi and I figure this is going to be a pretty cool night.

     We get back to my place and we’re still wearing our f*****g monster make-up and she asks if she can take a shower and I say sure and give her a towel.

     She steps out of her shoes then takes off all of her clothes and goes into the bathroom and the shower runs and I figure I am so getting laid tonight.

     She comes out and she’s naked and drying her hair with the towel and she asks me if she can borrow a t-shirt.   I give her my Shogun Assassin t-shirt and she puts it on and passes me off the towel and I go in and take a shower.

     When I come back, she’s watching Evil Dead and I compliment her choice and she says she’s never seen it and I tell her she’s culturally retarded.   I put on some loose sweatpants and I get into bed with her and we watch the movie and make out a little and I discover that her c**t has a big old f*****g bar pierced through it and it’s got square ends like dice and I don’t know what to do with it because I don’t want to accidentally f*****g hurt her and she jerks me off a little but we don’t make a big deal out of it and when the movie’s over we just fall asleep with me spooning her.

     The next day we wake up and we just hang out in the basement in our jammies all day.   We watch, like, a dozen horror movies and we play with each other on and off.   She puts me in her mouth, but she’s got a tongue piercing that matches her c**t piercing and the cube is really f*****g distracting and I can’t make it so she gives up and she keeps on twisting around so I can’t get my fingers into her or get on top of her and it’s kind of fun but kind of frustrating.

     She says she wants someone to pretend to break into her house and rape her.   My immediate reaction is that it’s a great idea.   But then I think about the logistics and it doesn’t seem like such a good idea.   She lives with her parents and what if they decide to come home from work early or stay home sick or what if the neighbors see me standing outside of the house cutting open a window screen in a f*****g ski mask and they decide to call the cops.   That would probably require a little bit of explaining, so I tell her I’ll think about it, when I’ve already made up my mind.

     The third day I’m just frustrated and I’m kind of getting sick of her and I’ve already seen all of my horror movies that she’s watching and I’m being kind of sullen so I just smoke a lot and find s**t to do around the house.   Her tits are kind of floppy and I’m sick of looking at them and they’re f*****g pierced too and I’m pissed off that she’s got metal shot through all of her erogenous zones and I imagine she’s like some kind of cyborg killer prostitute and it makes me laugh to myself and she asks me what’s so funny and I just sigh and say, “Oh, nothing.” but I really want to just put knives in her eyes or hit her over the head with the crowbar or just choke the s**t out of her and dump her into the septic tank with the other one but everyone knows we took off together and it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to lead the cops back to me when she shows up missing and since I was on payroll all they’d have to do is look me up in the database and the whole jig would be up.   Cops would be all over the place with f*****g corpse sniffing dogs and I’d probably get murdered before I ever saw trial.

     That night is a haunt night so I drop her off at her house and I go to work at the haunt and we don’t work together and I just kind of avoid her and she ends up going out with the brother of the guy that runs the place and they’re all over each other, like all the time, and it kind of sucked.   Not that I was jealous, but it just wasn’t something that I wanted to see.

 

     I’m good and angry and I want to take it out on someone like right now.

 

     Back when I had a LiveJournal I subscribed to all sorts of random chicks.

     LiveJournal wasn’t the best way to meet chicks.

     It was kind of a pain in the a*s and most of the new girls you added were friends of girls that were already inter-subscribed so it was tough to run game without word getting around like high school gossip.

     Right before I dropped my LiveJournal for good due to complications which arose when I tried to f**k my girlfriend’s friend…

     Well, she was asking for it.   The friend that is.   We’d hang out and get drunk and she’d tell me that her boyfriend didn’t f**k her like a real man and she wanted to be fucked for real and then she’d look me in the eyes and I figured she meant me.   Then the next day I send her a message to follow up like to make plans to come over and really put the spurs to her and she makes like she was all drunk and didn’t know what she was saying and rats me out to her friend, the girlfriend.

     F*****g cooze.

     Anyway, right before I deleted my LiveJournal I added some random chick from Texas.

     I liked her icon picture so I figured why not?

     She didn’t get back to me and I deleted my LiveJournal, but she found me on MySpace and told me she had been away on a cruise for, like, a month, which was why she hadn’t added me, but she had wanted to add me so she found me on MySpace.

     So we stay in touch over the internet.

     She reads my blog and I read hers.

     She’s in and out of relationships and I am too.

     I get a job where I’m sitting at a desk a lot and I have a computer with the internet so I set up an AOL IM account and she and I message back and forth and sometimes the chat gets a little sexy.   A little dirty.   But it’s not like there was anyone looking over my shoulder so what the f**k who cares?

     She had a webcam and she’d send me little sexy pictures.   She was really cute and flirty and sexy and if she didn’t live so far away we could have a really good time.

     We traded numbers and she’s call me on the phone and sometimes it was fun and sometimes it was annoying.   Sometimes she’d whine about how we should be together and how she’d move to where I lived or how I should move to where she lived so we could be together.   Other times she’d talk me into doing phone sex for her and she’d masturbate while I told her what I’d do to her if I ever got ahold of her.   She wanted me to jerk off at the same time, but although I did get hard thinking about what I’d do to her I could never really get into jerking off with a phone held up to my ear.

     I got a webcam and we’d send pictures back and forth.   She kept trying to set it up so we could, like, videoconference and interact, but the technology sucked and it never worked and always just ended up being a waste of time and effort that was just frustrating and pissed me off.

     Over time she gets around to asking me if I want to marry her and I said I would, but only in Vegas by an Elvis impersonator.   And I would have too.   I figured getting married wouldn’t really f**k anything up and then I’d just make her get a divorce and then I’d be divorced which would be kind of cool in a jaded sort of way.

     She gets it into her mind that she really wants to meet me in person so we make plans for her to come up and stay with me for a week or so.

     The first time she’s got a boyfriend that she’s playing break-up make-up with and he convinces her that I just want to f**k her and talks her out of coming up.

     Granted it’s true, but I don’t let her know that and I’m pissed off because I paid for the plane ticket and took a week off of work and when I cancel the flight the f*****g plane company won’t refund my ticket.   Instead they offer me credit, but only in the name of the person the ticket was for, and I figure there’s no way that I’m buying another plane ticket for this c**t so I tell the lady on the phone to forget about the credit and to go f**k herself and that I’m never using their services again,

     A month later the girl calls me up and she’s all tearful apologies and she says she wants to come up for real this time and I tell her to get her own f*****g ticket.

     She asks me if I’d be willing to pay for half the ticket.

     I figure I might as well.   I’m not happy about it, but since her LiveJournal days she had gone on to be a Suicide Girl and I figured there won’t be a lot of chances for me to f**k one of them in this lifetime.   So I tell her I’ll pay for half of the ticket and she says she’s going to book the flight.

     I don’t care.   Or at least I try not to care, expecting her to get cold feet and bail out every day.

     She calls me every night and keeps me on the phone for hours until she falls asleep.

     She’s got some pretty heavy anxiety problems and takes Klonopin to fall asleep and she keeps me on the phone until she gets all groggy and slurry and then she says, “Night.” out of the blue and clicks off.

     It’s kind of annoying, but kind of cute and I have to put up with it if I want her to come up and play for a few days so I just shrug it off.

     So the day comes when she’s supposed to get on the plane and I expect her not to get on the plane and to call me and tell me she chickened out.   And then when she doesn’t, I don’t expect her to be on the plane or to get off the plane when it arrives.   I figure it’s all an experimental exercise in phenomenology for me.   If I pretend that she doesn’t exist and that she’s not coming, then if and when she does appear I will be surprised.

     So I drive down to the airport and I figure out where her plane is supposed to disgorge its passengers.   And there are sporadic trickles of groups of people and I’m trying to figure out which one is her and the suspense is f*****g killing me.   And then there’s this little girl that looks like she’s twelve all in black with black rolling luggage and she looks at me and smiles and I realize it’s her.

     I get up to meet her at the bottom of the escalator and she puts out her hand and introduces herself all formal like and when I put my hand out and shake hers and give her a wry look she busts out laughing and tries to do this judo move where you hold someone’s hand and then quickly twist underneath it and it flips the person onto the floor, but I sense it coming and she just flexes against my wrist and doesn’t go anywhere and she sort of laughs and says, “Okay.   Let’s go.”

     I’m, like, a foot taller than her and I could do curls with this girl and I feel kind of creepy picking up this chick that looks wicked younger than me who I’ve been talking sexy with for, like, ten years.

     We go out to my car and I toss her luggage in the backseat and I get on the highway.

     We go to a restaurant and we get dinner.   She’s pretty fussy about what food she eats so we end up at a Friendly’s and she gets a veggie quesadilla and I get an appetizer sampler and we make small talk about her flight and about how she bailed out the first time and I didn’t really think she was coming this time and she’s really argumentative and sensitive about my mentioning that and I say that if she just came up here to argue with me then I can go right back to the airport and drop her off and let her figure it out on her own.   I’m in no mood to take any bullshit from this girl, especially after I had to eat the cost for that first plane ticket.   She doesn’t apologize, but she does stop getting all worked up and argumentative and uses the excuse that travel really stresses her out and she warned me that she was a handful.

     Like that’s any excuse.

     So we get out of the restaurant and we go back to my house and she looks around the place and she drops her luggage in the middle of the floor and takes her coat off and drops it on top of her luggage and just sort of walks around and checks out all of the stuff in my room like it’s a museum or an art installation and she’s not talking to me or interacting with me and I’m beginning to get a little annoyed so I just f*****g leave her to it and go upstairs and open the fridge and take out a bottle of root beer and I picture the lid of the septic tank under moonlight in my mind’s eye.

     I finish the root beer and wash out the bottle and flip it over and put it in the draining rack and go back through the door to the basement and down the stairs.

     I get to the bottom of the stairs and she’s sitting on the edge of the foot of the bed and just sort of staring at me and grinning and it’s really kind of disconcerting,

     She gets up and I figure she’s gonna come up and hug me or something, but instead she goes to her bag and unzips it and starts rifling through it, so I just leave her to it and go sit on my bed and grab my wireless keyboard/mouse and open up my virtual jukebox and start up my Bjork/Portishead/Depeche Mode/ Massive Attack playlist.   I know she loves Danzig and The Misfits, but that would be pandering, and I’m in no mood to play little f*****g schoolgirl games with her.

     She stops rummaging and stands up and looks over at me with that goofy f*****g grin and says, “I brought something for you.” and stands there waiting.   For what, I don’t know.   So I say, “Okay.” and shimmy over and sit on the edge of the bed and she gets down on one knee and fishes around in her bag and pulls out a big lump of black cloth and then she hides whatever it is behind her back and walks over on her knees so she’s kneeling in front of me and grinning that goofy grin.

     She whips out whatever is behind her back and it’s a Dawn of the Dead hoodie.   She told me she bought it for me, like, a year ago and when I check it out it looks all worn like she gave it to somebody, probably her f*****g boyfriend, and then stole it back to give to me, but whatever.   I put it on and it’s got a nice generous hood and I let it fall over my eyes and I smirk.   I say, “Thank you.” and she smiles and walks on her knees back to her bag and she pulls out a rolled up poster in a plastic sleeve.   I extract and unroll the poster and it’s a Dawn of the Dead poster.   I smile and say, “Hey.   Thanks.” and she leans in and kisses me on the mouth.   It’s a good long one and I can tell she’s checking to see if we spark, but I don’t feel it and when she breaks off she looks a little clueless too.   I know what she’s thinking.   She’s thinking that since there wasn’t an instant chemical reaction then it’s not love, but she didn’t fly all this way for nothing and she wants to try me out so we’re going to f**k a couple times and then she’s going to go home and we’ll go back and forth like we always did.

     So she starts to unpack her bags and she shows me all of the clothes she brought and they’re all cuts and she has a story for everything and it’s cute and endearing but kind of boring and not sexy.

     I figure we’re going to get nice so I excuse myself to take a shower because I think I need one.

     When I get back from the shower she’s got out a f*****g Nintendo DS and she’s playing some stupid f*****g Legend of Zelda game.   I figure, “What the f**k.” so I put on some sweatpants and pick up the book I was reading and lay down next to her and read.

     She keeps pestering me to help her solve puzzles in her game and they’re really easy, so either she’s not very bright or she’s begging for attention, but she says that she got stuck on that part on the plane and when I put my book down she doesn’t put her DS down and start making out with me so I figure the latter.

      She gets to another part that she can’t figure out and I can’t figure it out later because I haven’t played the game up to where she has so she gets all frustrated and packs the game up.

     She lays on her side and starts trailing her fingers up and down my torso which gets me hard.   She reaches in under my waistband and wraps her right hand around my shaft and starts jerking me off.   I figure it’s go time so I put the book down and turn to make out with her and she smirks and says, “Excuse me!” so I just shrug and pick my book back up and go back to reading.

     She starts jerking me off again and my penis begins to secrete pre-cum lubricant and she gets it in the palm of her hand and rubs it up and down my shaft and it feels good but I’m not going to pop my load anytime soon.

     I put the book down and go to make out with her again, and she does the “Excuse me!” routine again and laughs so I just shrug and go back to reading and she jerks me off some more and I figure she’s going to start giving me head since she bragged about how much she loves to give head but instead she just stops and says, “Night!” and flips over onto her other side and whips the covers up over her.

     She’s fully dressed and I figure she’s got a f*****g screw loose.

     I read for about a half hour later and put my book down and click off the light and kiss the back of her head and go to sleep.

     I wake up before she does and I’ve got morning wood so I go to the bathroom and wait for it to go down a little and take a morning piss.

     When I come back into the room she’s waking up and she’s all squeaky and it’s really cute and I’d be completely smitten if I wasn’t so pissed off at her for the bullshit the night before.

     She says she wants pancakes so we go to a breakfast place and she gets pancakes and I get eggs Benedict and then I take her out to a scenic overlook.   She goes all over like she’s never been outside before and takes pictures of birds and squirrels and trees and s**t and whenever I get near her she laughs like a loon and takes off and it’s really annoying.

     We get back to the house and she breaks out her f*****g DS again, and I’m pretty pissed off so I just leave her in the basement and I go upstairs and work out then I go outside and walk around the property, just following the perimeter of the stone wall.

     When I get back in the house I go downstairs and the lights are off and she’s either asleep or faking, so I grab my book and go upstairs and read.

      I read for a few hours and I hear movement from downstairs, then I hear her coming up the stairs, then the basement door opens and she squints and shades her eyes against the light and asks, “What are you doing?”.   And I dryly reply, “Reading.”.   She says, “Why don’t you come to bed?   I’m lonely.”

     I shrug noncommittally and close my book and she goes downstairs and I follow shortly after getting a cold glass of water.   I get in bad with her and I’m not really tired and I spoon her and rub my hands up and down her body and initially she ignores them, but eventually they work and she turns on her back and kisses me long and hard.   We kiss for a few minutes and she takes her shirt off and she’s not wearing a bra and in the half-light I can see her naked torso and her firm B cup breasts.   I take my shirt off and she runs her hands across my chest and we kiss some more.   I rub my hands up and down her body and up and down the outside and inside of her legs and she reaches into my sweatpants and starts jerking me off again and moaning and sighing so I rub her p***y through her pajama pants and she squeezes her thighs on my hand and moans and sighs.   I’m all hot so I stop rubbing her and stand up on the bed and take off my sweatpants and I figure maybe she’ll start blowing me.   When she doesn’t, I lay back down and rub and kiss her some more and I tug her pajama pants off, but she doesn’t make it easy.

     I rub her p***y and it’s warm and damp and she’s moaning and sighing and I slip the tips of my left hand inside and she jerks me off faster.   I move over on top of her and she doesn’t make it easy for me to get between her legs but I do and when I finally get on top of her and her legs are spread wide open, I rub the head of my c**k in between her outer p***y lips and she gasps and moans and whines a little.

     I say, “Condom?” and she says, “Please.”   So I take out a condom and tear it open and I roll it over my dick and I get on top of her and I put the tip between her labia and push and it’s like pushing your finger into the center of a navel orange.   I can feel her part but her c**t is gripping me like a baby’s fist gripping your finger.

     I push it in all the way and she’s humping against me and she stage whispers, “F**k me.” and I’m straining and concentrating to not cum right away and when I don’t start just f*****g piledriving her she whines “F**k me!” so I start f*****g her and it’s so f*****g tight it feels great but I feel like I’m going to cum the whole time and when I finally do I don’t even enjoy it because it happens way too soon and I really want to f**k her for a good long time, but I just can’t.

     When my orgasm stops I can tell that she’s definitely not sexually satisfied but she is feeling gloaty and she says, “See?   I told you I was tight.”, and I let that go without comment because I’m kind of pissed off that I came so fast and I’m kind of pissed off that she didn’t do anything to help matters and that she made me wait a night which probably made things worse by making me all over-eager and pent up.   What do you expect after you jerk me off for two hours and then just flip over and go to sleep?

     So I get up and I wring out my dick and slip off the condom and go to the bathroom and take a piss to clear out my urethra and when I get back into bed she’s turned over on her side with the covers over her and I get in bed next to her and spoon up against her but she’s breathing deeply and her mouth is all slack open so she’s obviously asleep so it’s obvious I’m not going to get another chance tonight so I just give up and go to sleep.

     The next morning she’s up early and she’s chipper.   We take a shower together and it gives me wood but she just sort of stares at it and grins like a retard and doesn’t do anything with it so I just get out of the shower and dry off and get dressed.   She gets out of the shower and dries off and gets dressed and announces she wants waffles, so we go to the same breakfast place and she gets waffles and I get a couple eggs sunny side up with bacon and toast.

     I take her to a local national park and she walks around like she’s in a daze, like she’s never seen f*****g pine trees before, and I we really don’t talk, and I’d like to get to know her, but she just keeps walking and skipping along and I keep following her and chain-smoking.

     We follow the trail in a big loop and my feet are getting sore and I’m getting sick of the great outdoors and I’m running low on cigarettes, but thankfully she just goes back to the car.

     I unlock the car and let her in and I take the scenic route home because the sun is setting and it’s really beautiful and the leaves are changing and I figure it’s a nice drive.

     We get back home and she drinks root beer and I put in Akira Kurosawa’s “Seven Samurai” but she doesn’t pay attention to it, instead making goofy f*****g stupid comments about it so I say, “Fine!” and turn it off and lay down with my eyes closed and all of the walking must have really worn me down because although I only meant to sulk, I fell asleep.

     When I wake up it’s dark and she’s lying on her side beside me.   I roll over and rub my hands along her body.   I slide my hand under her shirt and squeeze her left breast with my cupped left hand.   She rolls onto her back and I slide my hand across her chest and squeezes her other breast.   Her mouth opens and she swallows.   I can tell she’s awake.   I slide my hand under the waist of her pajama pants and slide my hand over her outer lips and press against them and she breathes in sharply.   She’s a little wet so I slip the tip of my middle finger into her.   She makes an “Uh!” sound and starts breathing faster.   I slip my middle finger all the way in and then pull it out and put my middle and index finger inside her.   It’s a tight fit, but I worm them into her and rotate my wrist, twisting my fingers inside her.   She twists her body away from me which levers my hand out from between her legs and she rolls onto her stomach.   I slip my fingers between her legs again and I put the same two fingers into her and she arches her a*s into the air like a cat and I start f*****g her with those two fingers.   Her a*s stays arched into the air and she’s making muffle sounds into the pillow.   I put the tip of my third finger together with the tips of my first two fingers and I push them into her and she gasps.   When those three fingers are all the way in, clenched straining around me, I lean down and put the tip of my left thumb into my mouth, getting it wet, then I put the tip of it onto, then into her a*****e and she squirms and whines.   I’m getting really hot so I take my hand from between her legs and I swing my left leg over her and grab my dick with left and just put it right into her.   She moans and this time it’s not too f*****g tight and I f**k her liberally, slapping against her a*s with my hips and each time I thrust into her it knocks her forward and she jerks forward along the length of my shaft but I don’t pop out of her and I f**k her and she’s moaning and panting and swallowing.   After a half hour of that I feel like I’m going to cum so I back out of her and grab her legs and put her in the center of the bed and swing her legs open and get on top of her and I put myself inside her and perch up like I’m doing push ups and I jackhammer her for another few minutes and she’s breathing heavy and whining and she starts clawing my back and a*s and it kind of hurts but kind of feels good but I get sick of that so I grab her wrists and hold them down against the bed and piledrive her till I know I’m going to cum and at the last possible moment I rear back onto my knees and pull out of her and jerk myself off while I cum and in the half light I watch my jizz shoot all over the upper half of her body.   The first jolt shoots all the way up to the side of her face and lands in her hair.   The rest shoot over her tits, ribcage and stomach.   The last trickle I whip onto her abdomen cracking my dick like a well-cooked hot dog on the edge of a picnic table.

     She’s f*****g exhausted and she just sort of lies there and catches her breath.   I get up and pick a dirty t-shirt off the floor and kind of smear the cum around, not doing a very good job of cleaning it off, more just smearing it around her torso like lotion.   She gags and uses the shirt to clean off as best she can then throws it on the floor.   I walk off to the bathroom and I’ve still got enough of a hard-on that I don’t have to hold my dick to aim it.   Instead I stand with my fists on my hips like a superhero and watch the light yellow stream plunge into the water.   I wash the cooze goo off of my pubic area and climb back into bed naked.   She’s already laying on her side passed out gape-mouthed.   I’m smirking in the darkness thinking, “Now THAT’S how you F**K!” and I fall asleep with a smile on my face.

     I wake up the next day and she wakes up around the same time.   We loll around in bed naked.   I try to start up again but she says she’s too sore.   She asks, “How did you know to finger me first?” and I reply, “I dunno.   Just seemed like the thing to do at the time.”

     It’s the day she’s leaving and she gets up and takes a shower.   She comes back in and gets dressed and starts packing her stuff.   I take her cue and get dressed.   We do this in silence.   When she’s all packed and she’s put her coat on I say, “Shall we go?” and she just goes up the stairs and through the door.   She doesn’t say anything on the way to the airport and her silence is so present that I don’t say anything either.   I pull up to the airport entrance and she opens the passenger side door and folds the seat back and takes out her bag and sets it on the ground and I say, “Call me when you get back so I know you got home safe.” and she says, “Okay.” but it’s like she’s not even talking to me and she just walks through the automatic doors without looking back.

     She doesn’t call, but I don’t wait up to see if she’s going to.   The next day I get this weird text message from her on my cell phone and it reads like a weather report with the relative humidity and whatnot, so I text her back, like, “Hey!   How are you doing?   How was your trip back?   Give me call when you get settled in.”.   But she never called me or texted me and didn’t send me a message over MySpace or anything.   Then I send her a MySpace message.   “Is this the part where we stop talking to each other?” and I can tell that she read it, because MySpace lets you do that but she doesn’t reply so I get mad and drop her off of my “friends” list and changed the status on my MySpace profile to “Divorced” by way of a private joke.   But I sorta kinda miss her so I try to find her MySpace profile and I can’t find it, so I figure the b***h blocked me, so the next time I’m over a friend’s house I log into his account and look for her and I can’t find her, so I figure maybe she deleted that profile and set up a new one to avoid me, so I try to search for her using her first and last name, and it turns out that there are five pages of girls that have her name, but none of them have her hometown and state, so I go back and get her e-mail address out of my e-mail account and I search using that and all I find is the profile for the MySpace presence for the porno company that she moderated the message boards for and it looks f*****g deserted and half-disassembled, so I just give up.

     Maybe someone kidnapped her when she got off the plane back home.

     Maybe she hooked back up with her crazy alcoholic boyfriend and he f*****g killed her.

     I’ll probably never know.

     I still look for her every now and again, but it’s just an exercise in futility.

 

     The next one was too easy.

     I just made this sort of form letter about hanging out and having a couple drinks and watching a few movies and sent it to pretty much every chick on my friends list and, like, half a dozen bought it,

     Chicks are so f*****g stupid.

     The message was just casual and suggestive enough that you almost couldn’t help but answer it.

     I mean, who doesn’t like hanging out and having a couple drinks and watching movies?

     I scheduled in one chick.

     She had those stupid f*****g nautical stars tattooed on her shoulders.

     She had a fair amount of pictures on her MySpace profile so I thought I had a good idea of what she looked like.

     I drove down to get her.

     She lived in a cul de sac in a suburban neighborhood.

     When I call her cell phone to tell her I’ve arrived I can see into the first floor of the house.   She stays on the phone and I watch her go from her bedroom into the hallway and hear and watch her yell at her little brother and tell her mom that she’s going out, but not where or with whom.

     She comes out the front door and hangs up the phone as she comes up to the passenger side door.

     It’s dark, but I can tell that she’s chubby.

     She was apparently a master of the “creative angle for flattering MySpace profile pictures” school of photography.   I could have told her to get the f**k out of my car, and just gone home and jerked off to porn, but I figured, f**k it, I’m already here, and I don’t have any other big plans, so why not.

     I drive off and we make small talk on the way back to the house.   You know.   Music.   Movies.

     All of the bands she’s into are new and I haven’t heard of any of them but they all have artsy screamo names about sunsets and suicides and s**t.

     We get to the house and I show her in.

     I think she’s like nineteen.

     I mix us up a couple of big glasses of Amaretto Sours and we go downstairs with them.

     She takes off her hoodie and I observe that I was right.   She’s chubby and her snub nose and jowls make her look kind of piggish.   I put in Dario Argento’s ‘Opera’ and we settle in and watch it and sip our drinks and I’m nowhere near drunk, but I can feel the booze a little, so near the end of the movie, I figure, “Why not?” and I’m lying down and she’s sitting up and I reach over and trace my fingers along the exposed flesh spilling out from the bottom of her shirt and spilling over the waist of her jeans.

     She giggles and says, “That tickles!” but I keep doing it and she goes into, like, a light trance as I trace my fingers along her expanse of creamy white flesh.

     I sit up and slide my hands along her sides and trace the backs of my fingers up the sides of her neck and she arches her neck.   She’s so f*****g digging this.   I trace my fingers down along her collarbones towards the cleavage exposed by the scoop neck of her t-shirt and she turns her head towards me to be kissed.   I kiss her and she’s a bad kisser, but her mouth tastes liqueur sweet and she darts her tongue in and out between my lips.   I reach in and move my dick into a more comfortable up and down configuration because it was creeping down towards my pants leg.

     I reach my hands around and pull the collar of her shirt down in the front exposing her pudgy little b***s nestled into a dark satiny purple bra.   I claw the cups back, exposing her n*****s and I pinch and roll them and she arches her neck back and breathes through her open mouth.   I am both disgusted and aroused at the same time.

     I reach down to put my hand down the front of her pants but I can’t because her gut is restricting my access to the top button so inside I claw on the outside of her pants inside her thighs and she writhes and squirms and moans a little.

     I know there’s no way I’m going anywhere further from where I’m at so I say, “Excuse me miss, but I have to use the facilities.”.   She kind of comes out of the stupor and pulls her shirt back up and opens her eyes and I get up and walk over to the bathroom.   Even though my dick is firm and hard, I really do have to pee, so I lean with my hands on the wall over the toilet and the force of my stream churns the water.

     I fold my dick back into my pants and I know it’s making a gnarly bulge and I walk back into the room and she’s sitting in the same place.   I take off my belt and drop it on the floor to see if it would inspire her to get up, get on her knees, take my dick out and put it in her mouth and suck it, but she just kind of looks up at me like she’s retarded so I crawl into bed behind her.

     She sits there for a minute then she gets up and says, “I’m going to change into my pajamas.”.

     I’m thinking, “You brought f*****g pajamas?” and she gets up off the bed and digs into her bag.

     She pulls out a white wife beater and unfurls a pair of light blue cotton pajama pants with penguins scatter printed on them.

     I’m watching her do all this and she smiles self-consciously and says, “I like penguins.” And takes her shirt off.   It’s not a pretty sight.   She has a big pale white belly and the straps of her bra are cutting into the flesh of her sides.   She puts on the wife beater and then does that thing where girls take their bra off with a shirt on and whips the bra out one of the sleeves.   Her breasts barely settle at all.   Well at least they’re not saggy to boot.

     She sucks in her tummy and undoes the button and zipper at the front of her pants and shimmies out of them.   She’s wearing a satiny purple thong that  matches her bra and the straps of the thong make curvy indentations on the flesh of her hips.   She wriggles into the pajama pants and at least the elastic waistband doesn’t cut into her flesh as badly as her jeans did.

     She leaves her stuff in a pile and climbs onto the bed and picks up her drink and sips on it.

     I decide not to try to get up on her until the movie ends.

     By then we’ll have finished our drinks and they won’t get in the way.

     The movie ends and I turn the DVD player and TV off and it gets dim in the basement.

     I put my glass on the nightstand and take hers out of her hands and put it on the nightstand table.

     She knows what’s up.

     We’re sitting side by side and I lean in and kiss her and her mouth is sticky and sweet.

     Our tongues play in each other’s mouths and it all feels kind of sweet and innocent and boring.

     I reach down and grab the bottom seam of her shirt and try to pull it up over her head, but she puts her arms against her sides and says, “Wait.” and I reply “Wait for what?   I’ve already seen you in your underwear.” and she looks a little unsure but she puts her arms up and I peel the wifebeater off of her.

     I take off my shirt and we go back to making out and I try to get my hand between her legs so we can just move on to the inevitable and get it over with but her legs are clamped together and she keeps trying to brush my hands away.

     I get sick of that bullshit so I cross my left arm over to the other side of her and kiss her and she leans back a little and I move my left leg over her and I’m on top of her and she falls back and she puts her arms around my neck and squeezes me close and I try humping her but I can’t really get in there, so I put my left knee over between her legs and kind of pry it in there and get the top of my knee against her groin and pump up against her rhythmically and I can tell it’s making her hot so I put my weight on my left knee and get my right knee in there and push her legs apart with mine.

     Finally between her legs I lay on her and get my bulge against hers and I hump her while we’re making out and she’s breathing heavy and gaspy.

     A minute of that and I rear up and undo my belt and my top button and my fly and she’s laying there with her eyes half closed.   I push my pants down over my hips and I put my package against her and she grabs my a*s and presses me against her.   Her jammies are kind of damp where her cooze has been dripping into them and my underwear has a damp spot where the head of my dick is oozing pre-cum.   So I put my thumbs into the waistband of my underpants and I push them and my pants down to my knees then kind of kick and wriggle them off so I’m naked and she’s still in her jammie pants and bra.   So I grab the waistband of her jammie pants and she opens her eyes a little and she gives me this vulnerable look, but she lets me pull her jammie pants off because I didn’t grab the strings of her thong along with them and she kind of wriggles her butt and I pull the pants inside out and her feet pop out and I toss her jammie pants onto the floor.

     I go back to humping her and thankfully her thong isn’t all lacy because it would chafe my dick.   I grab my dick with my right hand and rub it on the outside of her snatch patch then I extend the first two fingers and push her thong aside and press the tip of my dick against the outside of her sopping wet p***y.   I rub the tip half in up and down inside her outer lips but I don’t want to try to put it in yet because I know she’ll put on the brakes.   I want her to get a taste of how good it feels.

     I find the entrance to her vaginal canal and I line up the head with it and push a little and she gasps and moans and I put most of the head in and when I perch up to push the rest in she puts her hands against my shoulders.   I set back on my knees and maybe she thinks I’m taking her cue and going slow, but instead I grab the straps of her thong and pull them down to her thighs and it’s easy to get them the rest of the way down her legs and over her feet.   I ball them up and toss them aside and get back down on her.

     I press the head of my dick against her drippy lips and the head finds the opening and I push it in and she sucks in air through her teeth and winces.   We’re going to have sex.   I get a it half the way in pretty easily and she says whispers, “Do you have any condoms?” and I just stop and give her a look and say, “It’s not like I’m going to cum inside you.” and I give her another half stroke.

     We do it like that for a few minutes, but I’m not getting all the way in so I pull her knees up and put my forearms under them and curl her up so I have a better shot.

     I put it in deeper and she sucks in air and whines, “Ow. Ow. Ow.”.   I ignore her and keep pushing and when I’m almost all the way in she whines and says, “Too deep!”.   I just laugh and shove the rest in and she yelps and I perch up and just start f*****g her pushing my dick all the way in and pulling it out till just the head is in.   I’m not jackhammering her, just f*****g her steady and deep.   She’s all wincy and biting her lip and sucking in air through her teeth and whining and I don’t care.

     I pull all the way out of her and she relaxes a little.   Maybe she thinks it’s over but I smirk and ram it back in her and she actually f*****g sobs.

     I perch up and start really driving it into her and start to pick up the pace.   She doesn’t like it and she starts whining so I slap her across the face, hard, with the open palm of my right hand.   Her cheek flushes red and she starts crying and trying to push me off her but it’s not happening.   She’s got no leverage.   I just f*****g piledrive her like a porn star, harder and quicker and as deep as I can get and I can tell I’m going to cum so I lean my weight against the backs of her legs and ram myself as deep as I can go inside her and I can feel the tip of my dick jamming up against her cervix and I just let go and cum inside her and I can tell that she’s pissed when she realizes that I’m dumping my whole load deep inside her, but I try to ignore it because I don’t want it to make my orgasm less intense.

     When my dick is done pulsing I give her another pump out of spite then lean my hips back and my dick pops out of her and a little jizz leaks out of her.   I get up and lean over to find my pants so I can get my cigarettes and she rolls over onto her right side and curls up and starts crying.   “Boo. Hoo. Hoo.”

     I lay on my back and cup the tip of the cigarette and light it and get that first deep inhale inside me and then exhale with a satisfied sigh of smoke.

     I’m pulling on my cigarette and I look down and my dick’s still hard.

     Sometimes it does that.   Sometimes I get limp sometimes I stay hard.   And even when I go limp I just have to get up and take a piss and wait ten minutes and I’m ready for more.

     So I hurry up and finish my cigarette and stub it out in the ashtray.   And she’s laying there all curled up and her crying settled down a little and now she’s just kind of sniffling and I’m disgusted.   I just f*****g hate her.   Sloppy f*****g cow.   What did she expect?

     I get on my knees and I push her over onto her stomach and straddle the back of her legs and she tries to wrestle out from under me but I have her pinned and I grab her hair in my left hand and make a fist and yank her head back and she makes a choking sound and I say, “Quit f*****g struggling.   I’m not done with you.”

     And I grab my dick with my right hand and line it up with her a*****e and I just push it right into her and she cries out and starts crying again.   Sobbing really.   Big lungful of air sobs.   And it’s really distracting.   I let go of her hair with my left hand to use it to support myself and I make a fist with my right hand and punch her in the back of her head and I can hear her teeth click together and I imagine that she probably bit her tongue and it probably hurt, but I don’t care.   I yell, “Shut the f**k up!” at the back of her head and keep thrusting into her a*s.

     It’s nice and tight and slick and her big pillowy a*s makes a nice soft cushion when I ram my c**k deep inside her a*s.   I f**k her in the a*s quickly and steadily for a good half hour and she’s whimpering and crying and whining and snorking back snot the whole time and when I feel I’m gonna cum, I grab a fistful of her hair with my right hand and yank her head back, and she tenses up which feels great because her a*****e squeezes tight around the shaft of my dick and I drive it all the way in and unload, pulsing, into her a*s.

     I get up off her and roll off the side of my bed onto my feet and walk over to the bathroom and out of the corner of my eye I see her roll back over into the fetal position and cry even harder than she did the last time I was finished with her.

     I flip on the bathroom light to check my dick for s**t and it’s not like it’s coated like a corn dog, but there is a muddy mucous streaked with bright red blood.   I say, “S**t.” and turn the spigot on the sink and wash my dick off in the sink.

     I come out of the bathroom and I turn the light off and she’s still curled up crying and sniffling and sobbing every now and then.   I grab my cigarettes and take one out and light one and take a drag and blow it out then lean over and fish around in my pants for my underwear and I step into them and pull them up and pick my pants up and push the legs back rightside out.   When I get them up on my waist and get them zipped and buttoned I’m feeling pretty f*****g manly and I take a drag of my cigarette and yell, “Quit crying or I’ll give you something to cry about!” and I smirk and exhale a plume of smoke.

     She’s so f*****g out of it to even be scared.

     I’m sure if I stomped over to her she’d f*****g react but it’s just not worth it for me.

     I’m kind of spent and I just want to f*****g be rid of her and go to bed.

     I shrug into my shirt and tuck it into my pants and go over and sit on the edge of the bed and take a second to compose myself and I say, “Hey.”

     “Hey, I’m sorry.   Look.   Get dressed and I’ll take you home, okay?”

     And I know she hears me because she quits f*****g sobbing and sniffles, then loses it and sobs a couple more times then regains her composure and sniffles and snorks back a wad of snot and sits up and gives me a look to make sure I’m not just f*****g with her and gets up covering her body as best she can with her hands, but there’s a lot of f*****g body to her and she’s only got tiny little girl hands anyway.

     She picks her clothes up off the floor and puts them on and I finish my cigarette and stub it out.

     She picks up her hoodie and zips it up and grabs her bag and stands there half looking at the floor half looking at me expectantly.   I stand up and I shrug towards the door which leads out to the bulkhead and I say, “Let’s go out the back, I want to show you something.”

    I take the lead and I open the door to the stairs up under the bulkhead and I open the bulkhead and flip the doors open to the sides and step outside.

     She follows me up the stairs and outside.

     It’s a beautiful night out.   The air is cool and crisp, almost cool enough to fog your breath.

     The moon is full and low in the sky and there are only a few small wispy clouds high up in the sky.

     There’s a slight breeze that rustles the leaves but it’s barely audible and the night is otherwise completely still and clear.

     I walk over to the mound of the old septic tank cover and she comes up on my right side and I look up into the moon and breath in the cool air and say, “Isn’t it beautiful?”.

     She looks up and sniffs and wipes her nose with the back of her right hand and she’s maybe finally regaining her composure.

     I watch her out of the corner of my eye.

     While she’s looking up I haul back and make a fist out of my right hand and I jab her in her left side with my right.   Right at the bottom of her ribs.   It’s a good shot and she doubles over and starts gasping.

     I take a step back and lift my right leg up and kick her in the shin between her ankle and her knee.   I don’t kick her with my toe, I stomp down and her leg makes a muffled crunchy snapping sound.

     I used to be able to kick two by fours in half when I was working at the college theater so I probably fucked her up pretty good.

     She tries to get her balance but she’s all fucked up and she falls over onto the short damp grass.

     She hits the ground with a whoomph and curls up, whimpering, into the fetal position but that’s not enough to protect her.

     I kick her in the face with the toe of my shoe.   Her head snaps back and she howls in pain.   I just keep kicking her in the head.   It sounds like I’m kicking a watermelon or a pumpkin except for the clicking sound when I kick her in the jaw and her teeth smash against each other or the crunchy squelchy sound when I kick her in the face and something breaks.

     After about eight good firm kicks I take a break and catch my breath.

     She’s not moving really, but her chest is still rising and falling slightly.

     Her face is all pulpy and slack and she’s not so much breathing as she is gurgling.

     I figure that’s good enough so I roll her over towards the cap of the septic tank.

     I walk to the back of the house and grab the crowbar and use it to pry off the lid of the tank and roll it off to the side.

     She’s still making gurgly sounds so I step back and haul off and smash her in the skull with the crowbar a couple times.

     She stops gurgling.

     Maybe she’s out.   Maybe she’s dead.   I don’t care.

     I mover her over, lining her up with the hole and it’s kind of a pain in the a*s because she’s slack, dead weight and there’s a smell coming up from the dark in the hole and I kind of forgot about my friend in there.

     Imagine the worst garbage you’ve ever smelled.

     Worse but different than that.

     Imagine the worst s**t smell you’ve ever smelled.

     You know, the kind that takes you off guard and hits you like a wall and almost knocks you over.

     Different and probably worse than that.

     You can’t even endure it for too long or you feel your gorge rise.

     And just when you’ve choked it back it rises again.

     I haven’t ever puked, but God knows that my body wanted to.

     At least it’s nice and cool out tonight.   If it was a hot summer afternoon the smell probably would have f*****g knocked me right over.   And even though the smell coming up from the hole is pretty intense I can smell that the b***h on the ground s**t her pants.   F*****g ew!

     I drop her and jerk up and huff out a breath to clear the smell out of my nose and mouth.   I try to turn my breath and get a clear breath in, but it’s all just pretty ripe and awful.

     I line her head and shoulders up with the hole and go down and grab her ankles and sort of feed her into the hole.   Her head goes in followed by her shoulders and when that’s in I give her a shove and there’s more weight in than out and she shoots down into the darkness and some air puffs out and it smells like fresh s**t and stale dead body and I’m not going to lie to you, it’s pretty f*****g revolting.

     At least I didn’t bury the b*****s in the crawlspace underneath my house.

     I can only imagine what John Wayne Gacy’s house f*****g smelled like.

     Problems with the plumbing my a*s!   Dead body only smells like one f*****g thing and that’s dead f*****g body.

     I take a couple steps away and get some deep breaths of cool night air into me and it doesn’t flush out all of the awful smell, but it helps a little and I reach into my pocket and pull out my cigarette pack and flip one between my lips and light it and breathe the smoke deep into my lungs and blow it out at the moon and think, “Gee.   It really is a beautiful night out tonight.”.

     I finished about two thirds of the cigarette then walked back over to the black circle in the ground with the big iron colored lid next to it.

     I took the last drag and blew it toward the hole hoping that it would break up the s**t and death smell, but it sort of dissipated and I wasn’t about to stick my head in the f*****g hole to see if it was worse inside.   I just lifted up an edge of the lid and rolled it back into place and it settled in making a sort of gritty “Klonk!” sound.

     I didn’t bother checking up to see if she was really dead.

     I’d just look in the back yard each night when I got home.   I figured if the cap was still in place she was still in there, because in the unlikely event that she was still alive and she did manage to get out I think it would be highly unlikely that she would take the time to put the f*****g lid back on the septic tank before she went limping off to try to find help.

     I mean, really, what would you have done?

     I practically f*****g raped her.

     I mean, sure, she agreed to come over my house so she was partly guilty, but I know that what I did was kind of fucked up but I just got caught up in the moment and if I let her go she probably wouldn’t tell the cops, but she’d probably tell her friends and maybe word would get around and it could’ve fucked up my MySpace game so f**k that.

     I did what made the most sense at the time and I’m okay with that.

     I sleep okay at night.

 

     Speaking of MySpace, I’m not so stupid as to be oblivious to the fact that since we had been messaging back and forth over MySpace that there’s an electronic record of our interactions but when I’m messaging back and forth with some cooze I try to be all enigmatic.

     This serves two purposes.

     First, chicks dig it.   That whole dark and mysterious thing works every time.

     Second, I don’t provide a lot of information in case in the unlikely event that someone decides to try to break into her computer and read what’s inside to figure out where the f**k she disappeared to.

     I’m not an idiot.   I know they can trace I.S.P. addresses and figure out where any incoming messages had come from in, like, five minutes.

     But I mean it’s highly unlikely that this chick let her parents know the password for her MySpace account.   That s**t’s like a virtual online diary for kids these days and the last thing your average teenager wants is their parents nosing around and finding out what they’re up to.

     And I figure it’s not a computer crime, so why would they check the computer?

     Computer forensics?   That s**t’s expensive.

     I knew a guy that worked in a computer store and this dude comes in to get his laptop fixed and while it’s at the store, the state police show up and they seize the laptop and they say they’re going to send it to the state computer forensics lab, because the guy supposedly has kiddy porn on his hard drive, but it’s going to cost, like, $4,000 and I imagine, like, one poor schmuck in an office stacked with row upon row of desktop towers at a little desk with a terminal, just drudgingly hacking into drive after drive, looking for financial records and kiddie porn and regretting the fact that he went to school for computers but at the same time grateful to even have a f*****g job.

     Plus your average f*****g cop isn’t that f*****g bright anyway.

     One time I was out helping my friend DJ at this club and while I was out someone kicks in the front door of my apartment and steals a bunch of my s**t.   They left the TV, but they stole my computer and computer monitor and my Playstation 2 and my bass and electric guitar, but they left the acoustic.

     Anyway, I call the f*****g cops and a uniform guy comes over and calls it in and writes a few lines into his little notebook and he says that a couple detectives would come by the next day so I sit in a chair behind the door with a baseball bat and a big f*****g knife all night long waiting for the pricks to come back and get the s**t they left behind.

     The thieves didn’t come back, but the detectives came by the next day.

     They looked around disinterestedly and dusted the doorknobs with black powder.

     While we were looking around I noticed that there was a handprint on the window that was open when I got home the night before.   I guess they kicked in the door, then handed the s**t out the window.   While they were up to their dirty little business I guess one of the m***********s got into something kind of orange and sticky and they put their palm against the window so I called out to the detectives, “Hey!   Take a look at this!” and they came over and looked where I was pointing and I could see the f*****g handprint clear as day and they just stared like they couldn’t see it and I said, “See?”.   The detectives just sort of stared, then looked at each other and shrugged then walked towards the front door with the frame all splintered in at the deadbolt and said, “We’ll file a report.   Call in a couple of days and see if we come up with anything.”   I’m all f*****g incredulous and I say, “What about the handprint?”.   The short one with the f*****g moustache rolls his eyes and says, “Call us in a couple days.” and they turn around and leave.

     The moral of this story?

     Cops don’t want to work any more than the rest of us do.   They just want to look like they’re working.   They just want to show up, do their eight hours, hopefully not get shot in the face and go home to their fat wives and dull children.

     Most murders are never solved unless someone important gets wasted.

     And most murderers aren’t as careful as I am.   Not that I’m a model of caution, but I don’t kill anybody when there’s tons of people around or anywhere that I’m liable to get caught red-handed and if the pigs put their mind to it and follow the trail back to my house then so what?   Most of the time when the cops are investigating a series of similar murderers they interview the perpetrator along with everyone else and they don’t figure out who it is.   Does the killer wise up and cut the s**t and move away?   No!   The stupid f*****g prick can’t help himself and he goes out and murders a couple more people and the cops come around again and the cops STILL don’t figure out who the f*****g murderer is.   Sometimes a victim even f*****g escapes and the cops don’t figure it out until they f*****g catch the serial killer red-f*****g-handed with a meat locker full of f*****g torsos and body parts stacked up in his refrigerator or whatever.

     Like I said, your average police officer isn’t too f*****g bright and detectives aren’t that much brighter.

     I mean I wouldn’t want to f**k with Henry C. Lee or the F.B.I. but that’s a different story altogether.

 

     So I decide to cool out and not go raping or killing any random chicks for a while, just kind of laying low until the whole thing blows over.

 

     I knew this girl from when I used to do sound at a club.

     Since I had dabbled in tech theater in college running sound at some cramped dive wasn’t anything really.   It’s just knowing signal path.   The source goes through a cable to the board.   The board sends the info to the power amps.   The power amps send the signal through the speakers and you have sound.

     After that it’s all finesse.

     I could nail a feedback frequency either with a hi/mid/low e.q. on the board or with an e.q. of any number on the monitor board’s e.q.   I’ve always had a pretty good ear for pitch and tone.

     The club closed down and they remodeled it and turned it into a swanky gay club that ended up closing after a couple months then it re-re-opened as an alt./goth club.   F*****g typical.

     My friend got a job as an historical administrator at an old Baptist church.   I don’t know what her job really entailed, but what really mattered was she had the keys and knew the alarm codes and she wanted to know if I wanted to sneak in one night and f**k on the altar.

     Of course I did, so we made plans.

     We meet up at the church on the night of.   I’ve got a bottle of merlot I’ve been hitting off of on the drive over and she’s got a pint of Southern Comfort in her purse and we’re both good and drunk.

     She unlocks the front door and we stagger in and she goes over to where the alarm pad is beeping and disarms the alarm and it stops beeping.   She flips a few switches and the lights go on down the center aisle, down the sides lighting up the “Stations of the Cross” paintings in the alcoves, and the alter nave.

      The church is cavernous and echoey and kind of cool inside.   We walk up the center aisle like we’re getting married except we’re drunk and disorganized and laughing all the way.

     We get up to the altar and she takes her bag off of her shoulders and she grabs me by the front of the shirt and she kisses me hard and slobbery and she tastes like whiskey and it mixes with the bittersweet wine taste in my mouth and it tastes pretty good.

     She breaks off kissing me and her hands go down to my waist and she undoes my belt and the top button and rips down my fly and flips down the waistband of my underpants and she starts jerking me off and making out with me.    I stop and take a sip of wine and I’m clothed except for my c**k and balls hanging out and she goes over and takes the candelabra off of the altar and I whip the white tablecloth off and drop it in front of the altar.

     I’m in front of the altar and she’s behind it and she climbs up on the altar and kicks her shoes off.   Barefoot she dances like a stripper squeezing her tits through her shirt and rubbing her c**t through her dress.   She’s wearing a blouse and she unbuttons it looking all naughty and coy, button by button, revealing her lacy black bra.   With the shirt hanging open she runs her hands down her stomach and reaches down to her skirt and gathers it up and when it’s bunched up at her waste I look and she shows me that she’s not wearing anything underneath her billowy white cotton skirt and she shaved her vag for the occasion.   She puts her right hand over her vag and presses on it and slips her middle finger into herself and looks at me and smirks then she turns around and whips over and grabs her ankles and shows me her a*s with her quivering quim in the center then whips around and grabs the tails of her shirt and shakes her shoulders back and forth and pulls the shirt off of her shoulders then down her arms and when it’s off she spins it around her head and throws it at me and it lands on my head and shoulders and I whip it off and throw it onto the ground and take a belt of wine and yell, “Yeah!   F**k yeah!”.

     She reaches back and undoes the clasp of her bra and it goes slack, but she holds the cups over her breasts with her hands and gets down on her knees and leans over and does the one finger, “Come here.” gesture and I go over and she leans down, resting her hands on my shoulder and she kisses me and grabs the wine bottle and take a belt then kisses me again, pouring the wine from her mouth into mine.

     She breaks off and standing on her knees she lets the bra fall down her arms and she’s got big soft firm pale white tits and she grabs my head and puts her tits in my face and shakes back and forth.   It’s wicked fun.

     She leans back and I take another belt of wine and she sits down on her but and shimmies on her but to the edge of the altar and when her butt is on the edge of the altar she lifts up her legs and puts her feet on my shoulders and leans back on her right elbow and levels her eyes at mine and she gives me a dirty squint and reaches between her legs with her left and rubs her p***y, spreading the lips and making, “Mmm.” sounds.

     She does this for about a minute then she sits up, leans over, grabs the back of my head and jams my face into her p***y.   It’s warm and slimy, but it doesn’t smell badly, just warm and rich.   I stick my tongue in her and lick between her labia hard and then up over her c**t which I flick with my tongue then put my mouth over it and run fast hard circles around it alternating with quick hard sucks.   She’s urging me on shouting, “Yeah!   F**k!   Do it!   Lick it!   Eat that p***y!”.   Her fist tightens up even harder in the hair on the back of my head then slackens and I lean back up and my mouth is all shiny and slick with p***y juice.

     She gets her heels on the altar and shimmies back and I toss a knee up onto the altar and crawl up on top.   I stand up and pull my shirt over my head and toss it over the side and in the second it takes me, she’s up on her knees in front of me and she yanks my pants down around my ankles and puts her mouth on me and cups my a*s with her hands to get me in deep enough that she gags and while she’s gagging she’s looking up at me and I’m looking down into her eyes.   She pulls it out so that she’s not gag deep and bobs her head back and forth blowing me liberally.   I tilt the wine bottle back and drink back the remainder except for the dregs.   She stops blowing me for a moment, jerking me off with her left hand and looking up at me and I raise the bottle over her and she closes her eyes as I pour the dregs down over her face and chest.   The wine runs in red rivulets down her face and down trailing over her tits and it looks so hot I just have to f**k her.

     I step back and she leans back propped up on her hands behind her.

     I get on my knees in front of her and I walk on my knees so I’m between her legs and I grab her under the knees and pull her towards me so she’s laying flat on the altar.   I put my dick against her p***y lips and I slide right in and she says, “Oh, yeah!   F**k!” all sexy like.   I’m kneeling and she’s got her legs in the air on either side of me.   I take an ankle in each hand and stretch her legs out and lick up her left calf from the hamstring to the ankle.

     We f**k for a good long time like that and I’m kind of drunk and kind of numb so it takes me a good long while.   While we’re f*****g we’re urging each other on, saying s**t like, “Oh God!” and “Jesus Christ!” and it’s hilarious and blasphemous.   I shout, “I think I’m gonna cum!” and she yells, “Do it!   F*****g do it!   Do it all over me!” and I pull out and jerk myself off and she watches my jizz spurt all over her torso then sits up and puts the head of my dick in her mouth and hums a little while sucking out the last few trickles.

     She lays on her back and I lay on my side and we’re both breathing heavy and she says, “Whew!” and I reach over into my pants pocket and fish out my pack of cigarettes and fish one out and put it in my mouth and cup the tip and flick the lighter in my hand, but before I can light it she sees me and shouts, “Hey!   You can’t smoke in here!”, and we both pause and realize how f*****g absurd what she just said was and laugh our asses off but I till put my cigarette back into the pack and we start fishing around for our clothes.

     We fix up the altar as best we can and grab our empties and go back the way we came and she turns off the lights and arms the alarm and locks the front door and outside she kisses me and says, “See you around.” and I laugh and say, “You too.” and we walk to our cars and get in them and drive away, drunk and spent.

     Maybe I should have fucked her in the a*s while we were up there.   Maybe it’s a missed opportunity.   But even I’m not that sacrilegious.

 

     The next one was a real find.

     She was eighteen.

     Usually I don’t go for girls that young, but somehow she got onto my friends list and I probably sent her an introductory message during one of my recruitment campaigns and she bit so I followed up.

     We talked on the phone, but she didn’t have her own phone.   She was staying with a friend because of some fucked up complications with her parents.   I can’t remember what exactly, but who f*****g cares.

     We arrange to meet at this strip mall outside of the state university and I drive down to pick her up.

     I get there and park in the parking lot and she doesn’t have a cell phone so I can’t call her to tell her I’m there, but I’m a few minutes early for the time we agreed to meet.

     There’s this couple that keeps walking by my car and peering in.   Some nondescript guy with a girl with dark hair and glasses.   I know she’s not the one.   The one I’m picking up is a redhead.

     A girl in a white hoodie and a long white skirt comes from around the building and walks over.

     When she gets close enough I can tell it’s her so I get out of the car.

     We greet and the couple comes over.   Turns out they’re friends of the girl and they were probably checking me out to make sure I didn’t roll with a crew planning on running a train on her a*s.

     We make a little small talk and then the girl and I get into the car and head back to my place.

     The girl is pretty.   She has a nice face, but kind of a big forehead.   A fivehead.

     We talk about music and whatnot during the ride back up.

     We get back to my place and into the basement.

     She takes off her hoodie and it’s plain to see she’s got a nice big rack and frail little collarbone shoulders.

     I go upstairs and mix us up a couple mugs of amaretto sours.

     I go back down and hand her one of the glasses and I get out a movie for us to watch.

     Tonight’s selection?   David Lynch’s ‘Lost Highway’.    I figure it’s sexy enough to maybe get her in the mood.   What with Patricia Arquette’s gunpoint strip scene and whatnot.

     She sits with her legs crossed in the middle of the bed with her drink in both hands in the tent of her dress in her lap.

     I lay sort of curled to the side and behind her.

     She has long orangey natural red hair and keeps tucking it behind her ears and sipping at her drink.

     I get half my drink in me and reach out and brush the back of the fingertips of my right hand against the outside of her left ear.   She doesn’t flinch so I trace them down her neck.

     I put my drink down on the nightstand table and sit behind her with my inner thighs on either side of her a*s.

     I sweep her hair from the left side back with my left hand and drag the fingertips of my left hand down the left side of her neck down to her collarbone, then back up her neck and along her jawline.    I do the same thing with the right side, alternating.

     She starts to lean into my caresses and breathing a little heavy.

     I lean back a little and slip my fingertips under the bottom of the back of her shirt.

     I slide the fingers up on either side of her spine, lifting her shirt up to the band of her bra strap.

     She leans forward and I drag my fingers up and down her back and up over her bra strap under her shirt.

      I slide my fingers under the strap and she doesn’t react so I push the hooks open and the straps fall over to either side.

     I drag my fingers up and down her back some more, pushing her shirt up in the back so it’s up near her neck.   This exposes her ribs and abdomen so I scrape my fingers along her ribs and down across her stomach.   I slip my hands in under her stomach and smooth my hand up to the bottom of her bra and push the cups up over her breasts.   They’re warm and smooth and her n*****s are little rubbery points.   I pinch her n*****s between my fingertips and squeeze them and she gasps and moans.

     I keep my hand on her tits and pull her back up towards me and she turns her head and we start kissing.   I pull her shirt and bra over her head and throw them off to the side.   She’s got great tits.

     We’re making out and I slide my hands down to the waist of her skirt and slip my fingers in and slide them down to her groin.   I expect to have to slip my fingers into her underpants, but she’s not wearing any.   I rub her vag and she kisses my mouth and sucks on my tongue and lips.   She gets moist and I slip a finger between her lips and slide it up to her c**t and rub circles around it.   She “Mmm”s appreciatively and I drag my slick finger up her abdomen, between her breasts, up the neck and into her mouth and she grabs my hand and sucks on my finger like it was a dick.

     She stops sucking off my fingers and turns around, looping one leg over me which I lean back to avoid catching a foot in the face.   Now she’s sitting in my lap and humping up against me and we’re making out and I’m pausing every now and then to kiss down her neck to her tits and lick and suck her n*****s.

     I’m so hard it hurts and I push her back to get my pants open and she moves back and lays on the bed in front of me with her knees up, legs open, watching what my hands are doing.

     I get the front open, but I can’t really get my junk to hang out so I get up on my knees and push my pants down to my knees and wriggle out of them and take my shirt off and throw it to the ground.

     I don’t say anything else to her, I just get on top of her and get my dick inside her.

     She’s young and tight but not so awkwardly tight that I can’t get in.

     She’s not really exciting as a f**k.

     She just kind of laid there and took it.

     I’m just f*****g away and she’s kind of tranced out with her head hanging off the foot of the bed jostling whenever I thrust into her.

     It feels pretty good, but I don’t think I’m going to cum just f*****g her missionary style.

     I pull out and grab my drink and drink off the other half in a draught.

     She opens her eyes and looks up at me to see what I’m up to.

     I tell her, “Sit up.” and she does.

     I stand in front of her with my erection in front of her face and she looks at it then looks up at me with a doubtful look on her face.

     “Well?” I say.   She says, “I only do that with people I love.”

     F*****g ridiculous.   She’ll let a total stranger f**k her, but blowjobs are for boyfriends?

     Whatever.

     I step behind her and push her from the back so she lands with her face in the pillows.

     I get on her from behind with the inside of my thighs on the outside of her thighs.

     I grab ahold of my dick and put it between her a*s cheeks so it’s lined up with her a*****e.

     I grab a big fistful of her long hair like a pony tail and I yank her head back and drive my dick into her a*s.   She makes an unhappy noise but she doesn’t try to get away and I sink it in till my hips are resting comfortably on her plump little a*s.

     I f**k her at about the same rate that I was f*****g her missionary style but she’s not trancing out this time.   Pleased that I’m finally getting some kind of reaction out of this b***h I pick up the pace and f**k her a*s harder.   She makes more unhappy noises but just kind of lets me do whatever.   I make it and I cum, pulsing, into her a*s but it’s not as good as it could be because she’s not talking any s**t.   I mean she’s not really doing much of anything except being there and letting me f**k the s**t out of her.

     I might as well just be jerking off.

     I get off her and reach for my cigarettes and light one up and she gets up naked and goes to the bathroom and turns the light off but doesn’t bother closing the door so the light makes an oblong shaft on the floor outside.

     I hear her piss into the toilet water, then I hear her flush and she comes back and climbs into bed beside me and asks, “Can I have one?” and I say, “Help yourself.” and she takes a cigarette out of the pack and uses my lighter to light it.

     We finish our cigarettes and the movie ends shortly after.

     I turn off the DVD player and TV and put the remotes on the nightstand.

     I put my right hand behind her head into her hair and I make a fist, grabbing a fistful of it.

     I wrench her head back and bite her on the trachea trying to bite hard enough to bite a f*****g chunk out of her.   She takes big sighing breaths and gulps and I can’t take a chunk out but when I take my mouth off of her there is an impression of my teeth in her throat.

     I reach down between her legs and push my hand up between her legs and put the tips of three fingers into the opening of her vagina and I punch them into her and try to spread them but she’s so tight around them I really can’t spread them very much and she arches her back and makes a crying sound.

     I take my hand out of her and get myself between her legs and grab my dick and shove it into her hard enough that it pushes her whole body up against the wall and she makes a “Guh!” sound and I grab her left ankle with my right hand and rotate her body so she’s laying on her side while I’m still inside her with her right leg up in the air and I start f*****g nailing her hard like a porn star.   She’s got her eyes closed and her mouth is slack open and she’s gasping her breaths and I switch her leg from my right hand to my left hand and I put the first three fingers of my right hand into my mouth and get them all slippery with spit.

     I reach down between her a*s cheeks and ram the first two fingers into her a*s.

     She makes an “Uh!” sound and she doesn’t look too f*****g happy but she doesn’t say anything about it and I briefly think about putting the third finger in but her a*****e is already stretching with the two fingers that are already palm deep in it.

     I can feel the tip of my dick pushing in against the roof of her vagina, bumping into the lump of her cervix and each time I thrust my dick into her p***y I thrust the fingers into her a*s and I can feel my erection through the wall off tissue separating her vaginal canal from her rectum.

     I do this until it gets boring the I take the fingers out of her a*s and I turn her so she’s laying on her back and I f**k her as hard as I can.   I reach up with both hands and squeeze her tits and pinch her n*****s so hard that both they and my fingertips go white and she winces and cries “Oh!” and whines, but f**k her.   She f*****g asked for it.

     I’m f*****g her so hard that even though she’s crammed up against the wall I’m still ramming her into the wall and it’s pushing the bad away from the wall and she starts to fall into the gap between the bed and the wall.   It’s just f*****g ridiculous.   When I feel like I’m going to cum I roll her legs up and lean against her and I ram my c**k into her a*s and she tries to arch her back up away from it but I’ve got her knees pushed up against her chest so she doesn’t have any leverage to go anywhere.   I keep pumping in rhythm with the pumping of my prick while I’m cumming and it feels even better than the first time I came in her a*s.

     I tense up my body to let the last trickle dribble into her then I take my dick out of her a*s and get up and go to the bathroom and splash some water on my face and wash my groin in the sink.   I always feel kind of icky after putting my dick in a girl’s a*s but it feels so f*****g good while it’s in there it’s worth a couple seconds of feeling icky.

     I come back into the room and start picking up my clothes and I say, “Get dressed.   I’m gonna drop you off.”.   She doesn’t answer she just leans over the edge of the bed and starts picking up her clothes and we both get dressed without saying a word to each other.

     The car ride back is silent except for the car stereo and I drop her off at her friends house and she tells me to try to be quiet when I drive away but when she gets halfway up the walkway I rev the engine and give her a double-honk and she turns her head and shoots me an icy glare.

     I can be such a prick sometimes.

     The next day I’m at work and she IMs me, “I think you broke my a*s.   I took a poo this morning and when I wiped there was blood.” and I just laughed and blocked her.   I thought, “I couldn’t care less.” And then wondered if I really couldn’t care less and wondered what that even meant.

 

     I make it a habit when trolling on MySpace to scroll down and check out the thumbnails in the girls’ “Top Friends”.   If there’s a cute chick in there, I shift-click and open up their profile in a new window and check out their profile and pictures.   If she’s cute and she seems cool I send her an add request then scroll down and check out her “Top Friends”.   This works pretty well.   Sometimes I have, like, a dozen tabs open at once.

     So I get a new crop of friends of friends of friends and I send out a random and vague invitation and a couple bite, but I pick this one black-Irish looking one, in her profile pictures she’s got pale white skin and brown eyes and pink cheeks and I think I like her because she looks like a girl I used to go out with in high school who never gave it up and I figure it would be cool to get drunk and make out with her.

     We IM back and forth and we make plans to hang out on a night we both don’t have to work the next morning.   I IM her my address and phone number and that’s that.

     The night of she calls and says she got directions to my place off Mapquest and she’s just leaving the house so I know I’ve got, like half an hour to make a last minute sweep and spruce of the house and to set the ambiance.

      I open up the sex mood music playlist on my computer’s virtual jukebox so it will be ready to go if she wants to get into some S & M play.   I light some incense and set it to smolder and pick up some laundry off the floor and put it into my laundry duffel bag and go upstairs to make sure that there aren’t any dishes in the drainboard or whatever.

     I hear her car pull into the driveway and crunch on the gravel.

     I go upstairs and look out the side door window.   From a distance she looks just like she did in her pictures and she’s driving a little white compact sports car.

     She gets out of the car and I can tell she’s wicked f*****g short and she’s got a half case of Miller Light.

     That’s not a good sign.   Anyone that likes drinking that dogpiss can’t be that great.

     She gets to the bottom of the side steps and I open the door and lean the screen door open and smile and arch an eyebrow and say, “Velcome.” like Bela Lugosi does in Dracula.

     She’s wearing tight faded blue jeans and a black babydoll shirt with the word “B***H” spelled out in rhinestones across her meager bosom.   She looks at me and I can tell by the expression on her face that she’s not really impressed by her first impression, then I get to watch her try to hide it and see her make up her mind that she drove all the way out here and she has the f*****g beer so she might as well see it through.

     She ducks in under me and the screen door hisses shut and I close the side door and she holds up the case of beer and says, “Where do I put this?” and I point at the fridge and say “In the fridge.”

     She shrugs and opens the fridge and I know that all that’s in there is ketchup, mustard, relish, a water filter carafe and a half-finished case of Sam Adams Cherry Wheat.   She pulls a face and pulls a beer out of her case and says, “Want a beer?” and I say, “Sure.” so she dips back in gets me one of her Millers.   And for a second I imagine slamming the fridge door on her then jamming her into the f*****g fridge and suffocating the b***h.

     In person she’s not as cute as her profile pictures.   Yes she does have pale white skin and red cheeks but her skin’s all leathery and creasy like she somehow spent a lot of time in the sun but managed to still stay pale.   And her hair is black and it’s styled well, but it’s kind of wiry and it looks like it would snap in half if you tried to bend a strand.

     She grabs the bottle opener off the hook under the cabinets and opens a beer and hands it to me and then opens hers and takes a hit and she looks at me and says, “Okay.   Where’re we going?”

     There’s no furniture in the kitchen because my parents took the kitchen set with them.

     There’s no furniture on the entire first floor actually, since I live in the basement.

     There are curtains in the windows that my parents left behind and some small appliances on the kitchen counter but that’s about it.

     I say, “The basement.” and I take a hit of the beer and suppress a wince and open the door and start down the stairs and she follows.

     I don’t have a couch in the basement.   Just my desk with a comfortable sleek new computer chair and my bed which is where I watch TV.   I sit on the bed and turn on the TV and DVD player and the DVD screensaver comes on and I point at my DVD rack and say, “Go ahead and pick something.”

     She crouches down in front of it and looks at the spines.   She asks, “What do you recommend?” and I answer, “I don’t care.   I’ve seen ‘em all a thousand times.” and she keeps reading the spines and says, “I don’t recognize any of these movies.” and I reply, “Well, there are a few dicey ones in there.” and she says, “I can handle anything.   Movies don’t freak me out.” so I say “Really?” and I get up and grab a couple DVDs.

     First up is “Sick: The Life and Death of Bob Flanagan – Supermasochist”.   I lay back on the bed but she sits perched at the foot of the bed and I don’t care.   It’s obvious nothing sexy is going to happen between us so I might as well be comfortable.

     We’re both sipping on our beers and the movie plays but she chickens out at the scene where Sherry has Bob laid out on a gurney and she puts pins through the loose skin along the shaft of his flaccid penis.   The chick makes some disapproving noises.   Then Sherry goes to put a big silver metal ball the size of a bocce ball into Bob’s a*s and I stop the DVD and she’s looking a little paler than usual.   Maybe a little green around the gills.   And I say, “That’s okay.   This movie’s not for everyone.” and I put in “August Underground”.

     When I light up she lights up and she smokes Marlboro Lights and that makes me like her even less.   Marlboros are bad enough but lights make any room you smoke them in smell like the inside of a copy machine.   Like hot toner.

     Surprisingly she makes it all the way to the end of that one, but she’s sitting ramrod straight on the edge of the bed.   I just showed her two completely fucked up movies and she doesn’t want to be anywhere f*****g near me.

     She stands up and holds up her empty beer bottle and says, “Whelp!  Guess I’d better be going!”.    I get up and say, “Okay.   I’ll see you out.”.

     She starts up the stairs and makes sure to keep a few feet between us.

     She waits in front of the kitchen door and if I was going to f*****g knock her over the head, that would’ve been the time to do it, but I lean over and open up the door and hold it open for her.   I say, “I had a great time tonight.” and she says, “Me too.” and hands me the empty beer bottle and steps through the door.

     I never heard from her again.

     I could have f*****g raped and killed her, but I didn’t find her very attractive.

     It’s tough to get all excited about working over someone you don’t even really like.

     Plus she drove over in her car and I’d have to think about how to get rid of her car and all that so whatever.   At least I managed to f*****g weird her out and I’m sure that she won’t soon forget that night she went over to this guy’s house and he lived in the basement and he showed her all kinds of fucked up movies.   And it’s not like I showed her the worst stuff I own.   I could’ve tossed in Gaspar Noh’s ‘I Stand Alone’ or ‘Irreversible’ or Passolini’s ‘Salo – 120 Days of Sodom’.   But I didn’t and she pussed out so I view this as a victory.   Like usual, I win.

     If they ever catch me and I end up on the news she’s going to be watching and she’s going to yell, “See!   I f*****g knew it!   I told you that guy was a f*****g serial killer!”   But I’m not planning on getting caught.   Not that anyone does plan on getting caught.   But it’s funny to think about.

 

     There were others.

     I don’t want to bore you.

     Sometimes I didn’t kill them.

     Sometimes I just fucked them or just fucked with them and then cut them loose.

     Sometimes the girls walk right into it.   “Have you ever been blindfolded?”    “Have you ever been handcuffed?”   Those that haven’t are curious, and those that will admit they have probably liked it.

     Stupid cows.

     Surprisingly there wasn’t anything in the papers or on the news.

     I figured if enough girls got missing someone would be bound to notice.

     Maybe put together a task force or something.

     But that only happens when you leave the bodies out for people to discover.

     Cops are just people like you and I that for some inexplicable reason decided they wanted to be cops so they went for it.

     Maybe they like wearing uniforms or carrying a badge and a gun makes them feel all macho.

     It’s not like they’re f*****g geniuses.

     I probably know a lot more about the thing I do than any of those f*****g cops do.

     I even did some research.

     I went to the library and got a bunch of forensic pathology books.

     Not like the boring textbook styled ones.

     More like “Cold Case Files” kind of stuff.

     Read enough of those books and you’ll realize that guys like Henry C. Lee and Michael Baden are few and far between.

     Even though those guys are few and far between I still started to get all paranoid.

 

     I decided to try to burn the bodies.

     I drove over to the gas station and I bought one of those big red plastic five gallon gas containers.

     I took it over to the pumps and filled it up and popped the trunk and put it in.

     Back home I parked and popped the trunk and took out my brandy new five gallon container.

     It was daylight and the day had warmed up a little.

     I grabbed the crowbar and went over to the lid of the septic tank.

     I put the gas down and pried the lid off.

     The smell welled up and hit me in the face like a ton of rotten s**t.

     I gagged and staggered back.   I doubled over and gagged a little more.

     F**k!   I never get used to that smell.

     I get a couple clean breaths into me and I hold the third and go over to the hole and take a knee.

     Holding my breath for all I’m worth I heft the container and pour the gas into the hole.

     Pouring the whole thing in there seems to take forever and my lungs feel like they’re going to explode when the last finally trickles out.

     The breath I held bursts out and I get a huff of the reek.

     This time I don’t gag.   Maybe I am getting used to it.

     I take a book of matches out and I flip it open and fold one over and snap it against the friction strip.

     The match catches and I hold the book out with my fingertips and all of the matches flare up and I throw the flaming little wad into the hole.

     There’s a “Whoomph!” and some heat vapor.

     There’s lot of smoke, but no flames peeking out.   A thickening plume of black smoke snakes up and goes up into the air.

     Thank God no one lives nearby because there’s no way I could just explain away the big plume of awful smoke.

     Someone would probably get curious and wander over and say, “Hey!   Watcha burning?” and then I’d probably have to hit them in the head with the crowbar and dump them into the pit too, and their family would notice they were missing and the police would come by asking around, canvassing the neighborhood and I’d have to kill the cops, then someone would come around looking for them and the whole thing would end up in a stand-off with me barricaded in the house and getting kilt like those m***********s in Waco.

     But thankfully the house is pretty isolated so I just walk the f**k away and figure it’ll burn itself out.

     There’s only so much air in the tank and the gas won’t completely incinerate the bodies anyway.

     To cremate a body takes a ton of fuel and even then some bone fragments are going to be left behind.

     So I just go inside and microwave some pizza rolls and put on Seven Samurai.

     The next morning the fires dead except for a little smoldering and some light smoke.

     It smells like burnt s**t and rotten meat.

     Not like barbecue like I expected it to.

     But wouldn’t that be funny?

     I went to the back of the house and unfurled the green plastic garden hose until I had enough to get out to the hole.

     When I got out to the hole I looked at the end of the hose and for a second I wonder why there’s no water coming out of it and then I realize that I didn’t turn the spigot on back at the house and I wonder if I’m going retarded.

     I leave the end of the hose pointing into the hole and jog back to the house and turn the spigot.

     I jog back to the hole and there’s a little hissing as the water cools off the embers

     I’m hoping the water would help the odor but it’s the same smell just now it’s wet.

 

     I used to get blinding headaches as a kid.

     It would feel like my skull was contracting and my eyes were going to explode out of my head.

     I’d close my eyes as tight as I could and press on the sides of my head and I’d curl up into a ball on the ground and everything would go all white.

     Eventually they went away and I spent a few years worried that they would come back.

     Later on I just chalked it up to the whole being a genius thing.

     Like everyone that’s wicked smart got migraines when they were a kid.

     Maybe my brain was so big it was pressing against the inside of my skull.

     I don’t get migraines anymore but certain things still f**k with me pretty bad,

     I can’t go out to dance clubs because it’s overstimulating.

     The bass f***s with my biorhythms and I just want to go nuts on every girl in the place.

     It’s difficult to resist the urge now that I know the satisfaction of giving in to it.

     Sometimes when I go out in public, big enclosed spaces put the zap on me.

     I can hear the buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead.

     I have trouble hearing people talk to me and the piped in music and murmuring voices cause me to withdraw inside myself and I begin to hallucinate.

     Everything becomes all light and space.

     It’s not like that all the time, everywhere.

     I’m not schizophrenic.

     It’s just that places like that seem designed to hypnotize people.

     To put them in a trance.

     That’s why I try to stay the f**k away from them.

     Especially big indoor malls.

     I’m trying to just get from Point A to Point B and there’s someone walking slow in front of me or a group of obnoxious teenagers and I try to get around them but someone bumps their shoulder into me and I just want to start punching and kicking and stabbing.

     I just want to grab a baby stroller by the handles and hum it over the edge and when the mother lunges at me to scratch my eyes out, I want to catch her by the wrists and use her frantic momentum to swing her into the guardrail, using the guardrail as a fulcrum to toss her over the edge after her precious spawn.

     But that would be the point of no return.

 

     After a man loses his virginity.

     After a man has had sex with a woman, he views every woman differently.

     Well, maybe not every woman.

     Maybe not your mom, or your grandma, or your sisters or cousins or aunts.

     When you see a girl or a woman that attracts you sexually for whatever reason, you wonder what it would be like to run your fingers through her hair.   What it would feel like and how it would smell.

     You know the way that men think about f*****g every woman?

     I do that with rape and torture and murder.

     F*****g and killing.

     I don’t know if that’s how it is for everyone.

     I don’t know if taking that step changes everyone.

     People that do what I do don’t exactly have online message boards.

     There aren’t a lot of rapists or murderers that write about it in their blogs.

     Sometimes they keep journals.

     Rape diaries.   Torture diaries.

     But by the time their actions become public, but the journals become evidence.

     Maybe if I ever get caught I can write a book and make a million dollars.

     Maybe I can take up painting like John Wayne Gacy.

     Ha!   Yeah right!

     I watched a talk show about that once.

     I was waiting in the waiting room of my doctor’s office and some talk show came on.

     I think it was the one hosted by John Walsh.

     He was all pissed off about what he called “Murderabilia”.   You know, like “memorabilia”?

     That’s what he called the phenomenon where people are fans of serial killers and they collect and trade and pay large sums of money for stuff from the killers like letters and paintings and murder weapons and whatnot.

     And John Walsh is all pissed off and pious because someone killed his kid, like, a decade ago.

     But f**k him.   Grief should be a private thing and he’s flipped it over into celebrity.

     Whatever.

     If I ever get caught, it’s all over anyway.

     There’s no way I’m going to serve my time.

     I’m not gonna end up like Jeff Dahmer.   Get sodomized with the splintery end of a broken off broomstick and dying with a splintered broomstick up my a*s?   No thanks.

     I’ll hang myself before I ever see trial.

 

     The septic tank is full.

     Not full of bodies.

     Heavens no.

     Thankfully I didn’t dump the bodies into my new septic tank.

     It’s not like I can call up the septic service and get the f****r pumped.

     You might deal with tons of human s**t every day, but a couple dozen dead b*****s is sure to get noticed.

     I filled in the hole with trash.

     Not all at once.

     Just every time I threw out a bag of trash I stuffed it into the hole.

     Over time it filled up.

     When it got near the top I knocked in the cement top with a sledgehammer and threw the lid out into the woods over the stone wall out back the house.

     When I knocked the top in, it settled in a little so I covered it up with dirt.

     It should be fine for a couple decades.

     The grass will grow a little thicker in that spot.

     Even if someone decided to dig there, they’ll just dig up trash and figure I filled up the old septic tank with trash then knocked it in and covered it up.

     I should be fine unless later owners are the kind of jackasses that try to install a khoi pond in the backyard.   And if so, then so be it.   I’m long gone and invisible and that’s what they get for being pretentious a******s.   Unless you’re Asian you’ve got no f*****g business f*****g around with goldfish ponds.

 

     I stopped killing b*****s and without a proper outlet for those urges everything started to seem surreal.

     I stopped going outside.

     Not like out in my backyard, but out in public.

     I’d go shopping at the supermarket late at night so I wouldn’t have to bump into too many people.

     Stuck inside out at my house I started to imagine doing ridiculous stuff.

     I want to tie girls arms together and push them off the roofs of tall building.

     I want to feed girls into wood chippers feet first and watch the expressions on their faces.

     I want to take them out in a boat to the center of a lake with their wrists handcuffed and toss them off the side and watch them drown.

     I don’t trust myself around women anymore because now that I’ve crossed that line I don’t know that I can keep myself from acting on these urges and I don’t want to be in a restaurant and be unable to resist the urge to hack the waitresses throat open with the steak knife from my table setting.

     Things were getting surreal and life was getting hard to endure.

 

     Thankfully my parents died.

     I’m not glad that they died.   I mean it’s not something that I would have wished on them.

     My mother died from cancer, and my father died, like, a month later from grief.

     I didn’t feel very sad.

     I hadn’t seen them so long it was like hearing someone else tell you about their parents dying.

     You know they’re sad but it doesn’t really affect you.

     Like something you watch on television or read in a newspaper.    

 

     I sold the house.

     Both houses.

     First the house my parents lived in.

     Then when that money was in the bank I figured I’d just about worn out my welcome where I’m at now and I put my house up for sale.

     The real estate market was a little depressed but I still made hundreds of thousands of dollars.

     It’s not like I’m planning on filing a tax return anytime soon.

     So I’ve got plenty of money.

     I bought a nice roomy vehicle.

     The kind you can sleep in the back of if you’re driving a long distance and you get tired or the kind you can stay in the back of when you’re between apartments.

     I’m going on tour.

     I’m taking my act on the road.

     I always wanted to see this great nation of ours and I figure there’s no better way than by the nation’s highways and byways.

     You know, like Henry Lee Lucas.

     He managed to get around and have a pretty good time while it lasted.

     Maybe if I want to pretend to fit in I could wash dishes.

     Or get a job as a construction worker.

     You know, anything I can get paid for doing under the table.

     Maybe I’ll sell s**t door to door.

     That’s a pretty good way to get to know you neighbors.

     It’s true that I never told you what my name was.

     Maybe you might think that was rude.

     But I’m sure you understand that I have my reasons.

     I could be anyone.

     You could be thinking that you might even know who I am.

     I’m the quiet guy at work always sits by himself and eats his lunch out of a brown paper bag.

     He doesn’t really talk to anyone unless he has to.

     You wonder what it is that keeps him going on day after day, but you never ask him.

     Because then you’d have done something.

     Started something you can’t see through till the bitter end.

     Begun something that you had no intention of finishing.

     You’d own a part of him.

 

     Or maybe I’ll be that friendly guy that comes to your local coffee house and flirts with the waitresses.   Everyone knows that guy, or at least they think they know him.

     They know his name, or at least the name they know him by, but they never thought to ask what he does for a living.

     Then one day one of their waitresses stops showing up to work and the guy stops coming around and no one ever puts the two together.

      Never underestimate the absentminded carelessness of the average person.

 

     There are normal looking guys like me living lives of quiet desperation anywhere you go.

 

     We are legion.

 

 

P.S.:

 

     Sean.

 

     This post-script is just for you.

     About this book.

     I know you said I should write a book and you probably got a little bit more than you bargained for.

     But as long as you don’t tell anyone anything about me then I guess we’re cool.

     I hope the book goes on to have a life of its own.

     Maybe I’ll stop off in Manhattan and mail a copy of my confession to every major newspaper and a couple book publishers.

     I figure maybe someone somewhere will want to publish it.

     I don’t think they’d be allowed to though, what with victims rights, and not wanting to be associated with a mass murderer.   It’s a b***h that I won’t be able to get paid for my work either.

     Anyway, allow me to assure you that if you ever tell anyone anything about me I assure you that I will find you and I will kill you.

     Forget about the witness protection program.

     They only do that kind of thing for mob informants and government stooges.

     I’m not really into killing guys, as you might have figured out for yourself.

     That’s just violent, crude, base.

     There’s no art to it.

     Murdering men isn’t beautiful.

     I’m trying to do something else.

     But if you decide to turn me in, I’ll make an exception in your case.

     I’ll get creative.

     I’ll make your death a performance art masterpiece.

     I’ll make you famous.

     If you’ve read this far, you might’ve figured out that I’m pretty good at making things happen the way I want them to happen.

     Careful.

     Methodical.

     If you skipped to the end because the suspense was killing you, you might want to go back and pick up where you left off.

     I don’t make mistakes.

     I leave this with you.

     Do what you will.

     It is what it is.

     You do what you do, then you move on.

     I don’t figure I’ll be seeing you again if you finished reading this.

     But if I do, you’ll know when you know.

     The room will be dark and you’ll feel like there’s someone else in the room with you.

     This happens to people every day, but unlike all of them, there will be someone in the room with you.

     I won’t try to throw you a scare by elaborately detailing what the next few and your last days would be like.

     I’ll just let you use your imagination.

 

     Later.

 

 

THANKS:

 

To KTAD for inspiring the decline and teaching me a lot about love and despair.

 

To Sable for “letting” me put cigarettes out on her.

 

To any woman who decided that we were in an “open relationship” without letting me in on it.

 

To O as a woman willing to read the work in progress and never being offended by anything I wrote and for being excited when I said I was going to rape and torture and murder her.

 

To R.A.L.P. for helping with the conspiracy.

 

To my friends for tolerating my unflagging pessimism and criticism of everything and having the integrity to sometimes admit I was right.

 

To the Marquis De Sade, Leopold Von Sacher Masoch, Charles Baudelaire, Ernest Hemingway, Charles Bukowski, Bret Easton Ellis, Chuck Palahniuk, and Bob Flanagan for their openness, earnestness and courage.

 

To Frederic Chopin, drowningman, Ministry, Nine Inch Nails, Neurosis, Psyopus, Dethklok, Tom Waits, and Leonard Cohen for making the air sound beautiful and for musically complementing my emotions.

 

About the author:

 

     Sean Douglas does not want to get to know you and isn’t interested if you want to get to know him.   He’s not interested in coming to your town and making small talk with you or meeting your unattractive girlfriend.   Sean Douglas is interested in not sleeping, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee.

     Sean Douglas does not have any distinguishing scars or marks and where he lives is none of your f*****g business, thank you.

     Sean Douglas enjoys the comic book series ‘Beautiful Stories for Ugly Children’ and ‘Stray Bullets’.

     Sean Douglas only communicates through his computer, so in the unlikely event that you want to send him fan mail or get additional copies of the book you can contact the author at:

     E-mail: [email protected] or on MySpace:

     If you’re abso-f*****g-lutely determined to somehow get in touch with him through a medium other than the computer, he will do phone interviews arranged through his agent and if you’re driven for some ungodly reason to meet him personally, personal appearance can be arranged.

     Please review the Personal Appearance Contract available on his MySpace page.

Reviews

[Colleen C Dunphy]

Thank you for sharing this all here with us.
I will give you a full review once I read the second one.