“Ever
done it with a fairy?”
The
skinny chick in the Tinkerbelle costume had slipped into the space beside me at
the bar. I’d been too involved with my third beer to notice her standing there
until she tugged at my sleeve and asked who I was supposed to be—the standard
ice-breaker on that particular night of the year.
“Nixon as a leper,” I’d replied, somewhat curtly.
I was sucking the beer through a pair of straws so as not to have to
remove my disguise. The old novelty mask had been a bestseller once, back
around the time of Watergate. Now it was clearly starting to show its age—and
out me as a nerd to boot. The cartoonish papier-mâché Tricky-Dick ski-hook
schnoz was all crumpled and caved in, lending the wearer (in this case, me) the
appearance of somebody with a voracious long-term coke habit, or possibly the
pre-real-boy Pinocchio with a bad case of termites. I’d picked up the thing for
a song some years earlier at a fire sale in a flea market. (Never mind that I
was the one who’d started the fire.) This night I’d simply thrown it on before
going out, not thinking much about its condition, or its history.
Tinkerbelle thought my answer was a laugh riot. Then she’d come right out
and asked if I wanted to do it—just like that.
Only on Halloween, I chuckled
to myself.
She repeated the question, “Ever gotten it on with a fairy?”
“Not . . . voluntarily.”
“Well, I’ve never been with a leper,” she said, and I guessed she was
being completely serious.
“You
know what the leper said to the call-girl after they had sex, don’t you?” I
asked.
“No.
What?”
“Keep
the tip.”
“Good
one!” she spoke in a half-nasal, babydoll-meets-valley-girl voice, every
sentence coming out like a question, “But seriously, you wanna do me?”
Why
was I even considering it? This chick was so
not my type; tiny, waifish; about 5:2; pale, and grotesquely scrawny, like some
prepubescent pornographer’s dream girl, a stick figure with big fake fun bags.
Her face gave the impression of a worried angel on an extended hunger strike;
high cheek bones under sunken, darkish, otherworldly eyes focused on things no
one else could see. It was hard to guess her age; anywhere from twelve to
twenty-seven, I reckoned, though there was no way to be sure. This alone made
the proposition iffy if not downright dangerous given my record.
Her
improvised fairy-princess getup was nothing more than an old satin chemise with
a couple nylon wings hot-glued to the back, and a plastic toy tiara pinned into
her long stringy black hair. The size-zero arms and legs were bare and blue
with cold, while the nipples on her bizarrely over-ample knockers stood at
stiff attention, clearly visible through the glossy,
worn-to-the-point-of-see-through fabric of the slip. Her breath carried a sour
yeasty insinuation of serious drinking before noon, and I had the distinct
impression of being in the presence of a real-life space cadet.
“What
did you have in mind?” I asked.
“Ever hear of the famous Black Angel of Iowa City?”
“You mean, in the Oakland Cemetery? Sure. Everybody around here knows
that old urban legend.”
“It’s not an urban legend!” She seemed offended.
“Don’t tell me you believe –” I had a feeling things were about to turn
surreal.
“I’ve
heard if you do it in the angel’s shadow at midnight on Halloween, Satan will
appear.”
“Funny,
you don’t look like a Goth.”
“Wanna
get laid or not?”
“I
dunno, Tink, having The Prince of Darkness show up right in the middle of the
cum-shot? Sounds like a mood-killer to me. Besides, why would you want Satan to
appear in the first place?”
“Dude
owes me money.”
“What?”
“Took
fifty bucks out of my purse.”
“And
this happened . . . exactly . . . when?”
“Satan
and me dated a few times, off and on, starting when I was in eighth grade. Me
and some of my friends would play Mary-in-the-Mirror, y’know? Just for shits
and giggles? But this one time it actually worked, and Satan showed up, all
snarly and pissed off because we invoked him right when he had a really good
hand at his Thursday-night poker game, and he says that now we must pay His
Infernal Majesty homage—also, cover his losses at the table.”
“And
let me guess; homage involved, among other things, letting him do the nasty
with you and your friends?”
“Yeah,
pretty much. But first, each of us was compelled to kneel in supplication
before His Awesome Presence and offer a hum job. Unfortunately, his presence
wasn’t quite so awesome once he’d unzipped his fly. The other girls took one
look at the weird little shrunken-prune thingy between his legs and started
laughing. Well, that kinda hurt his feelings—he’s a lot more sensitive than
you’d think—so he turned two girls into geckos, or salamanders, or something
lizard-y like that, and stomped on them with his hooves. Then he slaps his forehead,
kind of embarrassed, like he’s forgotten something, says “Oops!” and pulls out
this freakin’ humungous strap-on dildo, which was totally gross, with these
huge horny spikes sticking out all over, and a rusty chainsaw blade wrapped
around it. Everybody who hadn’t been turned into a newt or an iguana ran away
screaming—except me, that is.”
“And what happened next?”
“What do you think happened? I offered up the sacred jewel of my maiden
virtue to the Infernal Majesty of the Underworld—doggie style, right there on
the shower room floor. Of course, he totally knocked me up on the first
try—isn’t that always the way?”
“Wait; he impregnated you with a strap-on?”
“Oh, jeez, no. The dildo’s just for show—basically he uses it to cull the
unworthy—that’s his fancy way of saying ‘scare the shit out of the tourists’.
See, Satan’s what you’d call a “grower”. The shrunken prune thingy between his
legs turned into a monster mutant sweet potato right there in front of me while
I was on my knees, supplicating his awesomeness.”
“And you went on to have a one-night stand with the Dark Lord of Lies and
his ginormous prize-yam-like wing-wang?”
“It was more like a forty-five second stand, but yeah, pretty much. He
was a perfect gentleman about the whole thing, though. Stuck around afterwards
for nearly five minutes just to cuddle and spoon, and later, he even paid for
my abortion.”
“What?”
I said, rolling my eyes behind the mask, “He wasn’t pissed off about you not
carrying his hell-spawn to term?”
“Of
course not! Satan’s totally pro-choice. Besides, he said that a hell-spawn
would only cramp his style and he was already so backed-up with alimony and
hell-spawn support he could barely make the payments on his pre-owned Subaru.
That and he wasn’t ready to be tied down again so soon after his latest
divorce.”
“Ah . . . I see.”
“It’s true!” Tinky was emphatic. “Anyway . . . you’re a lot cuter than
Satan—and I’ll bet you drive a cooler car, too. Plus, your regular dick’s
probably way bigger than his before it starts growing. (But don’t tell him I
said that; he gets really insecure about those sort of things, and when he gets
insecure, bad things have a way of happening.)”
“Not a word,” I should have been looking for the nearest exit, but I was
mildly entertained and it beat being alone.
“Why don’t we go back to my place?” she suggested. “It’s not too far.”
“What about the cemetery? I thought you were all gung ho to see the Black
Angel?”
“Too crowded—especially tonight. It’s always lousy with tourists, but on
Halloween the lines are out of control. They even bring in some snobby
demon-bouncer with a guest-list on a clipboard, manning the velvet ropes—or
would that be demon-ing?—deciding who gets in and who doesn’t. And—big
surprise!—it’s always the beautiful people who get chosen to hump each other’s
brains out under the statue and invoke Satan while the crowd counts down the
seconds till midnight; the tall, blonde Paris-Hilton clones and their
Justin-Bieber-y wannabe jailbait boy toys. It’s all gotten way too clique-y and
I’m not into the whole club scene anyway.”
“So . . . your place then?”
“If you still want to. But I should probably warn you ahead of time that
my psycho ex-boyfriend-slash-pimp, Kyle, will be watching us doing it from
between the slats in the closet door, and he’s liable to pop out and kick the
living crap out of you if he thinks I’m enjoying it too much.”
“No danger of that,” I said, “I can practically guarantee you won’t enjoy
it at all.”
“Ooh! Fantastic! Will you wear the leper mask while we do it?”
“Sure, I’m easy.”
“That’s funny,” she said, “So am I.”
* * *
Halloween! It’s
the most wonderful time of the year; that one, glorious, crazy, mystical,
magical night when it’s cool to be ugly and easy to blend in; when sickos
wriggle out from beneath their slime encrusted rocks, whack-jobs and weirdoes
step forth from the shadows, molesters go unmolested, freaks get a free pass,
and all the little perverts come out to party. It’s the only night I know when
a registered sex offender can put on a mask and go trolling for pussy in a bar
full of un-carded minors, or get himself picked up in said bar by some anorexic
bimbo with delusions of demonic infatuation.
But then, somehow, the crazy ones always find me. Maybe it’s pheromones
or an invisible aura of trustworthiness. Maybe they just dig the mask. Who
knows? It’s not like I advertise. Yet still they come—and come on—to me, these
curious, half-sane creatures, looking for a bad-ass or crushing on their first
older guy, latching on to an imaginary protector in the big scary crowd as they
try to work out their own drearily predictable “daddy issues” with a total
stranger. They vector in on me, drawn like hapless addlebrained moths to a
backyard bug-zapper.
And I let them come; let them “project” and “transfer” to their silly
hearts’ content, or live in whatever delusional world-of-make-believe works for
them, so long as I get what I want in the end. They do most of the talking
anyway—if they haven’t already talked themselves into it ahead of time. I look
up from wherever I’m sitting, and there they’ll be, waiting, hanging on my
every word, wanting something without quite knowing how to ask for it.
Just like that first time with—what was her name?—Brittany? Candice?
Dawn? Lindsay? Tiffany? Janelle? I can’t remember the specific details anymore;
only that she took me by surprise as I sat at my desk, buried behind a pile of
ungraded history tests, late one afternoon, long after the final bell had rung.
She was the first of god-knows-how-many—their faces blur together in my
mind—all of a type, unextraordinary variations on half-finished themes; long straight
hair and a little too much makeup, calf-eyed princesses in turtleneck pullovers
and plaid pencil skirts or simple white school-uniform blouses under dark-navy
jumpers, too self-conscious to be irresistible, yet almost unbearably alluring
in their awkward naivety as they strike their gangly-legged poses for me, aping
the pouty, pissed-off look of a Teen
Vogue cover model, the same pretentious put-on that young, inexperienced
girls have always mistaken for sexiness and maturity.
But oh! When she sat on my lap and let me do those things—let me touch her . . . that way; what did it matter? She didn’t try to stop me, never once
said no, only bit her lip a little as I began to unbutton her blouse; froze,
uncertainly, for the briefest of seconds as I slipped my hand beneath her skirt.
I kept her happy with kisses, glimmered her with artful misdirection; plied her
with lies and chocolate, all the while running my fingers through her hair in a
cynical parody of tenderness, filling her delicate shell-like ears with shiny
sugar-coated fibs.
“You’re so beautiful,” I whispered, “Has anybody ever told you that
before?”
“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod, Mr. M!”
“Call me Edward.”
“Edward!
Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!” The little genius wouldn’t shut up. “I love you—”
“I know, honey. I know.”
“—really, really love you!”
Clearly not one of my brighter students; this one was all Twilight and Harlequin for Teens, a
steady diet of happily-ever-after that only fed her frustrations, made her that
much more curious—that much more gullible. Would that I might have sparkled for
her. As it was, whatshername swore on her very soul that she would never betray
the sacred secret of our eternal undying love, cross her precociously
well-developed heart and hope to repeat eighth grade. She was still professing
her deathless adoration as I led her into the supply closet and told her to get
down on her knees.
“Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod . . .”
Yes, I was old enough to know better, but a young man has his
needs—moral-turpitude clause be damned! I may have been an authority figure—an
adult in a position of trust as they say—but I was also a horny
twenty-three-year-old kid, barely out of college, “teaching”—more like
spoon-feeding—Social Studies and American History to a bunch of hormone-stoned
hick-tards in the public middle school of a small Iowa town with not a single
legally-available woman anywhere, quite literally, for miles.
The only fruit in sight was of the strictly forbidden variety; too young,
too old, too married—all the standard non-starters. I was isolated, lonely as
fuck, living in a place where I couldn’t even say ‘fuck’ without everyone
knowing about it inside of five minutes and subsequently convening a school
board meeting on the matter. There was no adult conversation—even among
adults—and no such thing as intimacy. Discretion was impossible. I couldn’t pay
for what I needed or risk being seen with anybody who’d give it away. Celibacy
was about my only option.
So what the hell was I supposed to do when the Bella Swann fan club
started holding meetings on my lap? How was it my fault when they practically
threw themselves at my feet, offering their lithe-little, taut-little,
toned-little bodies without even having to be asked to stay after class? True;
I probably should have said something
when they started sexting me—other than sexting them back, that is. But if they
were as bored, and lonesome, and desperate as I was, who could blame them?
Beyond the odd older brother, most of them had probably never seen a guy my age
driving anything other than a pickup truck or a corn-combine. I’d come roaring
into town on a motorcycle, instantly becoming “the cool teacher” by default. So
what if my bogus-badass bomber jacket-with-a-tie look would have been a
metrosexual punch-line anyplace else? In that podunk shite-hole I was the
second coming of James Pattinson, and the last man on earth.
Eight months, two pregnancy scares, and as many as thirteen possible
counts of statutory rape later, I wasn’t quite so full of myself, having made
the one incredibly, unbelievably stupid mistake lust-boggled fiends always
make. I forgot that girls of a certain age are, by nature, utterly incapable of
keeping secrets from each other. Throw Twitter and Facebook into the mix and no
secret is safe anywhere, anytime. Mine came out when somebody uploaded the
video of a breathless round of Truth or Dare, taken at a local pajama party.
After that my victims started talking to each other. Texts flew fast and
semi-literate—the “Oh Em Gees” were off the charts. Then somebody—maybe the
same somebody—posted five or six of the racier mirror pics from our sexting
sessions, and things got ugly. “OMG!” morphed into “WTF!” as real-world rumor
metastasized into full-blown cyber-scandal. Eventually, some pesky tech-savvy
parents got wise to what was going on, wheedled the truth out of their
newly-repentant princesses, and informed the school administration. After that
it was only a matter of time. Once innuendo took flesh and became fact, I was
all but ass-fucked. I mean, straight up the Hershey Highway without a jar of
Vaseline in reach.
The public defender assigned to my case advised me to cop a plea; roll
over on eleven counts of indecent contact with a minor; surrender my teaching
certificate, do eighteen months in a residential treatment program, and spend
the rest of my life in the sex-offender’s database, classified as a low-level,
non-violent monstrosity. Not a bad arrangement, given the alternatives.
Unfortunately, the judge had a different idea. Bitch decided to make an example
of my case; threw the book at me with one hand, and the deal out the window
with the other.
She might as well have handed down a death sentence. One day the
so-called correctional system swallowed an innocuous vanilla-flavored nerd.
Eight years later it pooped out a predator with an on-line degree in Modern
English Literature. (I was done with Social Studies for good). I landed back on
the street with a hardcore authority complex, a wicked—and easily identifiable—Mark-of-Zorro
scar crisscrossing my once-pretty face, and a raging case of PTSD manifested by
recurring nightmares about gang rape in the shower and the use of foreshadowing
in the novels of David Foster Wallace.
I live under a bridge now, camping out with the others of my kind, a
loose-knit clan of misanthropic trolls, jobless, homeless, hopeless,
self-loathing, dirty middle-aged men without prospects or futures, sharing
nothing in common but our mug shots in the post office, poor impulse control,
and the deathless contempt of society. We spend most of our time scrounging
sustenance, panhandling, dumpster-diving, or evading the roving gangs of
civilian vigilantes who’ve taken it upon themselves to monitor our every move
and make sure we don’t get too comfortable.
I’ve never had “normal” consensual sex in my life, whatever that means. I
don’t consider what happened in prison sex—it sure as hell wasn’t consensual. I
walk around in a constant state of anger and confusion, craving pussy almost as
much as I hate the whole capricious race of Womankind. Not just the little
airheads who couldn’t keep their mouths shut all those years ago; I mean every
snobby, ice-hearted, ball-busting, vagina-owning ho on the face of the planet.
I despise them for having what I need—and myself for needing it so much.
And on that rare occasion when I find it—or when, as in this case, it
finds me? I like it weird, and I like it nasty, lowdown, gonzo, kinky,
off-the-chain, push-the-envelope, break a few eggs, draw some blood and leave
some bruises perverted as truly befits the sick fuck I’ve become. It’s the only
way I can get it up, and Halloween’s the only night I can get it on.
* * *
Ten minutes later
we were rolling around together on a leaky waterbed in her crummy one-room
basement apartment. The place reeked of damp carpet and old cat pee. A
disdainful black tom paced fretfully back and forth near the closet doors just
to the right of the bed, pausing on occasion to fix me with a baleful
eat-shit-and-die look, or curse me outright with a low guttural hiss. There was
no sign of Kyle, the vaunted psycho ex-boyfriend-slash-pimp, who, I quickly
assured myself, was yet another figment of Tinkerbelle’s hyperactively warped
imagination.
I
draped my faux-leather trench coat over one corner of the bed. It was nowhere
near as cool as my old bomber jacket—the thing lent all the drab dignity of a
campus operative for the Young Republicans—but I liked the pockets, especially
the hidden inner ones. They were perfect for secreting the sort of stuff the
“monitors” didn’t think I should have—like, for example, the line of condoms
I’d purchased from the machine in the men’s room at the bar earlier that night,
or the miniature box-cutters I always carried for special occasions such as
this.
They
say that making love to a skinny chick is like falling on a pile of wire coat
hangers. This, of course, assumes that you’re banging her in the missionary
position, which I wasn’t. Even so, an extra layer or two of padding would have
been nice. Tinkerbelle had so many sharp edges, what with all the bones poking
out through her scraggy, cadaverous flesh, that I could just as easily have
pleasured myself with a package of frozen spare ribs.
The
girl was straddling my crotch, still fully costumed, wings and all, trying to
decide which orifice would be more fun to fill. Finally, she plugged me into
her pussy and commenced flopping around randomly without generating a great
deal of friction. Given her mostly-otherwise tiny dimensions, Tinky’s vagina
was uncannily roomy. She could easily have accommodated three good-sized dicks
in addition to mine, with parking space left over for a minivan and a Vespa.
I lay back, closed my eyes, and thought of England.
“Hey!” she punched me in the shoulder, “You’re not paying attention! No
fair, zoning out on me like that. You’re supposed to be fucking me, remember?”
“Where’d you get those tits?” I asked.
“These? Oh, Kyle bought ‘em for me; said he knew a couple producers who
could get me into porn.”
“How old are you anyway?”
“Uh . . . twenty-two?”
The safe answer; simultaneously young enough still to be considered
“fresh” in the trade, while yet sufficiently mature to do with as one pleased
without any tiresome legal complications. It was also very probably the truth,
though I didn’t have to believe it if I didn’t want to.
“Is that what your pimp told you to say?”
“Nineteen—” Her reply was still inflected like a question, and way too
tentative.
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, little girl.”
My interest was suddenly on the rise.
“Seventeen.”
Something else was on the rise as well.
“C’mon! You can do better than that.”
Her pussy-walls began to tighten around my rubber-sheathed dick. We were
getting warmer.
“Sixteen?”
The age of consent in about thirty states, including the one we were
presently in, but still . . .
“You telling me or asking me?” I felt myself getting harder—
“Fifteen.”
—make that exponentially
harder.
“Really?”
“Well, no,” she whispered, “I’m only . . .”
The words trailed off.
“Yes?” I could feel my scrotum tautening like a drawstring bag.
“Fourteen.”
Ah! That was more like it. This chick definitely had my number—knew
exactly what I wanted to hear. I thrust my happily-deceived hard-on upwards,
taking charge of the fantasy, nearly knocking its flesh and blood object off my
lap. Christ! I could marry this little
skank in Kansas. Her precariously ersatz underage pussy was spasming and
quivering like a bowl of Jell-O in an earthquake. I threw my weight against her
hips, rolling her onto her back, then hovered above her, staring down with
sadistic delight, getting off on the rapidly seguing expressions of pleasure,
pain and fear that darkened her face like roiling cloud-shadows in the wind.
Never underestimate the sheer aphrodisiacal power of an imaginary truth.
Her big fake porno titties were jiggling and heaving beneath the
threadbare translucence of her chemise. My perpetually enquiring mind wanted a
better look. I stopped in mid-thrust and pulled out. Then I reached for my
box-cutters. A second later I’d deepened her décolletage, however inelegantly,
by about nine inches, opening a ragged gash in the material just wide enough
for me to reach inside. As boob jobs go hers wasn’t half bad. She would have
been a major hit with the hooter-fetish crowd—might even, with a little more
meat on her bones, have been pretty. I tore the slip apart with my bare hands,
ripping it all the way down to the hem as I stripped her naked. I yanked the
ruined garment out from beneath her, shredded the remnant into a long strip
(like in a magician’s endless-handkerchief trick), and knotted the end around
her neck.
“You ever played this game before?”
Tinkerbelle nodded, dark eyes dilating with arousal and dread.
“Turn over. Get on your hands and knees.”
She obeyed.
“You know what’s coming?” I gave a quick tug on the free end of the improvised
leash, jerking her head back towards me. “Tell me!”
“Please . . .”
“Please . . . what?” I wedged four longish fingers deep into her sopping
pussy.
“Oh . . . god!”
“Please, what?” I added my thumb, and the first third of my palm, and
more, and more, until the whole hand was buried up to the wrist, and my fist
was clenched inside her, working up and down, virtually punching her womb from
within. “Please what?”
“Please . . . Mr. President?”
I pushed her ass-cheeks apart with my knee. . .
“Please, Mr. President . . . what?”
. . . gave them a good, hard swat, crosswise from right to left . . .
“Please, Mr. President” she panted hoarsely, “. . . fuck me in the ass?
Fuck me with your big, hard, tricky dick?”
“Good.” My cock-head flexed against her bud. “You ready for this?”
“Oh fuck yeah! That is . . . I mean . . . Hail to the chief!”
Surging forward, I could feel my burrowing body parts on either side of
the thin wall of flesh that separated her holes; sharp knuckles chafing my
swollen dick even as it slithered back and forth against my hand. It was like
jacking off through a glove.
Tinkerbelle stared at me from over her shoulder. I jerked on the leash, pulling
her whole body backwards until her butt slammed into my crotch with a dullish
thud.
“Don’t look at me!” I laid my hand flat between her shoulder blades, and
pushed her face into the pillows. “Stay there.”
She was loosening up now, relaxing into it as her breathing picked up
momentum, pulsing in short sharp gasps and gulps. Muffled plangent cries contorted
her bowed upper body, as if the air roaring into her lungs was ablaze with
poisoned fire. She whimpered in that inscrutable,
girl-caught-between-pain-and-ecstasy voice that never fails to turn me on. The
sound was like an old hand saw ripping into an unbraced board, the syncopated
protest of the wood rising in pitch as each new plunge draws ever closer to the
edge. I leaned into my work, bent over and bore down, moving faster and faster,
each thrust another bite of the saw, splitting her apart.
I took the leash between my teeth, and began to spank her ass with my
free hand, watching the deep red welts rise on her tiny cheeks, virtually in
time to the squeaky death-rattle noises breaking from her half-strangled
throat. My balls were tingling pleasantly, swaying freely in the breeze, a
tender pendulum swinging to and fro, occasionally lolloping forward far enough
to brake against her inner thigh. This was starting to feel like fun.
The cat seemed to think so, too.
I barely noticed as the old tom hopped up onto the bed behind me. The
fluid-filled mattress was in constant motion, rising and falling in time to the
movement of our bodies, a gentle tidal wave rippling from foot to head with
every thrust, stroke and push. Then the mangy bugger took a swing at my
scrotum.
“Jesus H—” I turned around, craning my neck to note the source of sudden
pain. The stupid thing was batting at my ball sack the way a boxer goes after
an automatic punching bag. Except this boxer had claws—viciously, sadistically,
unbelievably sharp claws. “—Christ!
Get lost, you little fucker!”
Apparently, the little fucker didn’t answer to ‘little fucker’ as it
ignored me completely, and continued to spar with my man parts. I grabbed for
it. “Come here, goddamit!” The black beast took another swing and leapt out of
the way, landing just out of reach, near the corner of the bed.
“You disgusting, drool-faced varmint—”
“Don’t talk about Natasha that way!” Tinkerbelle protested in spite of
her restraints.
“First, shut up. Second, ow!
Third, I’m pretty sure Natasha’s a boy—”
Encouraged by the sound of its name—or deeply offended by the boy
reference—the cat lifted its tail straight in the air, arched its hind end and
began to urinate on my trench coat.
“—make that a dead man!” I
fumbled for the box cutters, which I’d left lying on one of the side-rails.
“I’m going to cut you open and use your guts for bungee cords! Do you hear me,
you mangy little piece of shit?”
Natasha continued to mark his territory, unconcerned by my threats,
though he never took his big yellow eyes off me for a second. His snobby feline
nonchalance drove me crazy with rage. I kicked at him as viciously as I could,
which was none too viciously at all given the position I was still in vis-à-vis
the fairy princess I was trying to ass-bang. If nothing else, the motion made
waves in the mattress, enough to throw the furry snot off balance and knock him
over the side of the bed.
“Now,” I spat out the leash as I turned back to Tinkerbelle, “where were
we?”
“I think we were—”
The cat leapt onto my back, in full
kamikaze attack mode, all four sets of claws fully extended.
“Fucking shit!” I roared.
“Exactly!” Tinkerbelle said.
I withdrew my fist from her pussy in one quick pull. It came out with a
sickish queefing noise, somewhere between a slurpy fart and a disappointing
firecracker.
“Get this goddamned thing off me!” I flailed around blindly, desperate to
dislodge the fuzzy parasite from the middle of my back. It was like trying to
scratch one of those unreachable itches, always maddeningly just beyond the
range of either hand.
Natasha stretched his forepaws to the back of my neck, and began to yowl.
“Mrrrrower?”
“Shut up!”
“Mau?”
“Yes, you, you flea-bitten piece of—why the hell am I talking to a
fucking cat?”
“Maaaauuuu?” He started
kneading my flesh with his paws, purring all the while.
“Get off! Get off!”
“M’rrr’uh uh.”
“I said get off!”
“You first, asshole.”
“What the fuck?”
“M’rau! M’rau! M’rau!”
Tinkerbelle raised her head from the pillows.
“Don’t mind her, Mr. M—”
“What?”
“Natasha; she doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“No, not that; just now, the cat said—wait! Did you call me Mr. M?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You called me Mr. M. How did you—”
“No I didn’t. I called you Mr. N. You know? N for Nixon. Mr. Thirty-Seventh
President of the United States of—”
“What’s going on here?”
“Nothing. I . . . hey! How ‘bout them Hawkeyes?”
“Stop trying to change the subject. I’m not going to—”
“Not going to what?” A deep male voice boomed from somewhere behind me. A
hammy fist wrapped around the back of my neck where the cat’s paws had been
only a second earlier.
“What the hell?”
“Bingo, dipshit!”
“Satan?” Tinky turned around to look. “Is that you?”
“Who else?” the newcomer rumbled, “Didn’t you ever stop to think what
Natasha spelled backwards is?”
“Ah . . . Satan?” she worked it
out, “So Natasha really is a boy?”
“Uh, yeah!” his voice echoed in spite of the small space, “Didn’t
appreciate the pink bows and miniature ballerina costumes, by the way.”
“And you’ve been watching me all this time? That’s so creepy and gross.”
“Gross? Me? I’m not the one picking up lowlife assholes in bars and
bringing them home for cheap, meaningless sex.”
“Excuse me?” I didn’t like being called a lowlife.
“Hey! If the enema tip fits . . . just sayin’.”
“What are you doing here, S?” The girl’s tone was too matter-of-fact for
comfort, “And what’s that smell? Eeeew!”
“How can you smell anything in here?” I said, though I had begun to
notice it, too; a whiff of something like sulfur and spoiled meat on top of the
original cat-pee and mildew bouquet.
“Ah, you mean this.” The interloper said helpfully. The closet doors flew
open all on their own, and a very dead body spilled out into the room
surrounded by its own personal entourage of buzzing flies. Tinky’s psycho-ex-boyfriend-slash-pimp
Kyle, no doubt. The corpse slumped forward as its neatly severed head dropped
to the floor and rolled towards the bed.
“Satan!” the girl gasped, “What did you do?”
“Look, Brittany, I—”
“Brittany? That’s your name?” Something clicked in the back of my head—in
concert with an impatient punch from the guy standing behind me. “Not Brittany
Vander Sloot . . . from Petalfield Middle School?”
“Don’t you remember me, Mr. M.—or should I call you Edward?”
“No freakin’ way!”
“Small world, huh?”
“What happened to you?” I asked, “I mean, aside from you used to being a
blonde?”
“You happened, Mr. M. You happened.”
“So, tell me this; I’ve always wanted to know; were you the one who
posted those mirror pics on the web?”
“Hello!” Satan snarled. “Some of us are trying to have a grownup conversation
here.”
“What do you want?” Tinker-Brittany demanded.
“Well, I was in town for the Black Angel appearance thing anyway; had a
few hours to kill before midnight, and thought maybe we could go out for a cup
of coffee or something—”
“Or something. I’ll bet,” she said.
“—but really, isn’t it obvious? I want you back. I realize, after all
this time, that you’re the only one for me. Can you ever forgive me for not
seeing it sooner?”
“Oh, Satan! I don’t know what to say!”
“At least say you’ll think about it. In the meantime, would you like me
to dispatch this lowly worm for you as I did the other?”
“Whoa! Take a chill pill,” I said, “We’re all consenting adults here.”
“Really? Five minutes ago you couldn’t wait for her to say she was only
fourteen. I’d say ‘what you are’ is an unregenerate sleaze-bag who gets off on
playing rough with underage girls.”
“Look who’s talking!” I still hadn’t seen the guy’s face.
“Hey! I was invoked, fair and square.” He squeezed the sides of my head
till I thought my eyeballs would pop out through their sockets. “What’s your
excuse?”
“I . . . I . . . I did my time. Eight fucking years in the pen! I paid my
debt to society—”
“And you still don’t get it,” Satan said, “You still won’t admit that any
of it was your fault. It’s all ‘they were the ones coming on to me’ or ‘how was
I supposed to help myself when they were begging for it’ and whatever other
line of bullshit pervoid sickos come out with to justify themselves. Oh yeah;
I’ve been keeping an eye on you, buddy boy.”
“But . . . but Tinkerbelle—I mean Brittany here—has to be at
least—what?—twenty-three now?” I tried nodding towards the girl, “No way you
can bust me for this.”
“Think again, soul-bag! I’ve got a nice, heavy millstone with your name
on it all ready to go around that tender little neck.”
“So, you’re saying I’m doomed to Hell?”
“As a matter of fact, we’re expecting you in . . . gosh! What time is
it?”
“Alright,” I said, “I think you guys have taken this joke about as far as
it can go. Best Halloween prank ever, and all that. Bravo! Extra points for
special effects; the body falling out of the closet was a nice touch—and the
flies! How’d you do that?—but it’s not funny anymore. So get lost, jerk-off,
whoever the hell you are.
“Whoever the hell I am?” The newcomer twisted my head back to the right.
For a second I thought he was going to break my neck. Then I saw him out of the
corner of my eye. It may not have been a very good look, what with the beady
eye-slits in the old Nixon mask impeding the view, but it was still good enough
to know that I was completely screwed. My worst experiences in prison were
about to seem positively PG-13-ish by comparison.
“Foolish mortal!” a clap of thunder accompanied his reverberating basso, “Did
you think you could escape the wrath of Perdition? Did you think you would be
spared the culling of the unworthy?”
“Not the strap-on!” Tinker-Brittany wailed.
“Yea, verily! That is to say . . .” Satan cleared his throat as he
snapped his fingers, “S’cuse me while I whip this out.”
“No, please don’t,” I whined, “I’ll leave. I’ll never do anything like
this again. I’ll—”
“Squeal like a pig fer me, boy!” the Prince of Darkness drawled.
“Wh . . . what?”
“I’ve always wanted to say that,” he laughed, “No, but seriously, how am
I doin’?”
“I—”
“Don’t,” Tinkerbelle cautioned, “You don’t want to piss him off.”
“Got that right, baby-cakes,” Satan said, “Take a deep breath, Eddy!”
Something huge and hard was rammed into me from behind. I screamed, not
so much like a pig, as a talentless little girl auditioning for the lead in Annie, letting my inner-soprano come out
to sing one long, stratospherically earsplitting note that made the big finish
in Tomorrow seem positively
pedestrian. The naked 40-watt light bulb that hung above the bed popped and
shattered, along with all the mirrors and windows in the apartment.
The gigantic invasive whatchamajig was ice cold and razor sharp. It
filled my innards like a puppeteer’s hand stuck up a sock, animating my flesh
without any regard to the spirit. The accompanying sensations were almost
unbearable. My already-bloated stiffy was swelling up to blimp proportions and
I couldn’t tell whether I was about to come my brains out or totally lose
control of my bladder, let alone decide which would be more embarrassing under
the circumstances.
“We havin’ fun yet?” Satan’s belly laugh reverberated through me, out to
the tip of my cock, and deep into the girl’s quivering entrails. I was vaguely
aware of something going on down underneath me as well; His Satanic Majesty’s
tiny prune-like pee-pee was doing its amazing magical metamorphoses, growing
into the monster mutant schlong Tinkerbelle had spoken of earlier. It pushed my
aching scrotum aside on its impatient way to her pussy.
“Oh, baby, yes,” she moaned as he entered her, “keep fucking me just like
that—both of you. Don’t stop even for a second.”
At least somebody was pretending to enjoy herself.
I emptied my spooge into the tip of the condom. The pressure on my
prostate kept me erect, and I couldn’t have stopped going through the motions
of fucking even if I’d wanted to what with Satan pulling the strings. With the
strap-on, he could keep things up—quite literally—for as long as he wanted, and
I had no say in the matter. I tried to think of something else—anything to
detach myself from the horror of the present. I searched my imagination for
that proverbial happy place they always tell you to go to in stressful
situations, but gave up after realizing I didn’t have one.
In Hell this would be my happy place. I’d probably end up joined at the
dick for all eternity with somebody like Kyle, or worse, somebody exactly like
myself. If the Infernal Office of Ironic
Punishments was really on the ball, I’d be reincarnated as a ditzy schoolgirl,
and stuffed into a phone booth full of dirty old men. At that moment I had no
doubt I deserved it.
The torture went on for lord-only-knows how long. By the time Satan was
done with it, my body was a limp dishrag wrapped around a blob of blood-soaked
hamburger. He disengaged abruptly before pulling me off Tinker-Brittany’s back.
The girl, orgasming with every breath she took, whimpered in soft complaint as
he withdrew.
“Hang in there, baby,” Satan spoke soothingly, without the thunderclap
accompaniment, “Gonna make sweet missionary love to you before I have to head
out. Just gotta deal with this douchebag first.”
He slammed me up against one of the cinderblock walls, holding me there
by the neck, my feet dangling inches above the floor.
“You think this gets you off the hook, pervert?”
“Uhhhlllgggghhhh,”
“Wrong!”
“Uhhhllll—”
“Shut the fuck up and listen. You got off easy tonight—Gee! Come to think
of it, so did I!—but don’t fool yourself even for a second, worm. You’re not
being let off with a warning here. The day of reckoning will soon be upon you. You
won’t know when and you won’t know where—you’ll never even see it coming. But
have no illusions, your true punishment still lies before you. Do you
understand?”
“Uhhhggghhh huuuggghhh agggghhhh.”
“Alright then,” he loosened his grip enough to let me breathe. “Just one
or two more things we need to discuss. One . . .”
He kneed me in the balls.
“That’s for Brittany, fuck-wad. Two . . .”
He dragged me out of the apartment and threw me into the middle of the
cold, wet street, running up to me with well-aimed kicks to my naked groin and
stomach, perfectly timed to underscore the fury of his admonitions.
“I am SO sick of dealing with horny ASS-wipes like YOU. You’re all the
same; it’s all take, take, take, and gimme, gimme, gimme, till they send you
down to me, and I have to listen to you BITCH and MOAN about how you got a bum
rap for ALL. FUCKING. ETERNITY. Do you know how IRRITATING that is? PISS me OFF
why don’tcha?”
I tried to crawl away, but the big guy planted a steely hoof in the small
of my back.
“. . . and one more thing, shitbird!” he rolled me over with his foot,
glaring down as he pointed a long, bony finger at me, “Nice mask.”
I felt a sudden burning, as if someone were pouring a vat of molten
plastic over my head, scorching and blistering the skin. I put my hands up to
my forehead and howled. The mask had been transmogrified, ruined nose and all,
into real living flesh, permanently fused with my own face. The good news was that
my mug shot in the post office was no longer current. The bad news—pretty much
everything else—was that I now looked the part of the twisted freak I’d always
been on the inside.
* * *
Somehow, I made it
back to my spot under the bridge, the sound of Satan’s laughter ringing in my
ears. It still does. I can’t get it out of my head, and I keep looking over my
shoulder, expecting to see him, leveling a skeletal index finger at my chest
like an executioner’s pistol. Can they call you paranoid if somebody really is out to get you? I spend my days in an
old packing crate, curled up in a fetal position, dreading the hour he shows up
to make good on his promise. I fear it may be soon. It won’t be much longer
before I feel that gigantic fist clapping around the back of my neck, dragging
me down to the place I’ve always been destined to belong.
And
there, I have no doubt the tortured souls of my victims will seek me out; the
girls whose lives I so casually destroyed. They’ll pick at my mind and tear at
my flesh through an eternity of torment—
“Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod
. . .”
—a
giggling, squealing, gum-snapping orgy of junior-high horror, schoolgirl gossip
and excruciatingly unfunny jokes about burgeoning body parts and farting farm
animals.
“Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod,
Mr. M!”
Their
names burned into my memory along with every lie I ever told, and every silly
gushing word they ever spoke to me.
“Oh!
My! God!”
But
then, it’s the crazy ones who’ve always found me. And it’s the crazy ones who
always get you into trouble.
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