Hippie Holidays

I met this guy named Thor through my boss. Thor was interested in making a documentary with me, and he had a bunch of film equipment that I was lacking, so I agreed to meet him. Immediately thereafter, he invited me to spend four days at home with him. And I did it.

Thor lived in his parents’ basement, so there was no shortage of food, toilet paper, water, Nyquil, heat, things that normal people have. Also, Thor is a prescription drug addict, so there was also no shortage of tranquilizers.

Things were sort of rocky at my own house. My roommate had been stealing from me, so I decided I’d take a vacation at Thor’s. He and I instantly felt comfortable around each other. I attributed it to the amount of tranquilizers he had been feeding me; Thor attributed it to the fact that we had met in a previous life where his name was Arrow and I must have been one of his good friends or lovers.

Right there, a red flag should have been raised, but give me enough good food and pills and I let certain things go. As long as Thor was not harmful and kept shoving pills down my throat I was complacent.

I managed to stay in Thor’s basement for two days. The second night, he bought vodka because he wanted to make some shit called laudanum, which I guess is this drink that’s like alcohol with opium in it. Thor had opium poppies he had ordered and claimed he knew how to concoct this shit, but we drank the vodka and got drank before the laudanum was made.

For me, drinking usually leads to sex, so that happened. Afterward Thor thought it was ok to touch me for the rest of my stay. I had to deal with him massaging my back, which was not so horrible. But Thor also felt obligated to perform these weird rituals on me that he referred to as “raki”. He would touch my head and loom over me with his eyes closed, looking really intense and moving his fingers over me like he was trying to pull energy from my being. Thor explained to me that he was removing all of my bad energy and putting it into himself. If it worked, that was great, but the pills seemed to work better. Then, to cleanse myself, he made me drink this big vat of tea shit that looked like piss and tasted even worse.

The next morning, I had the pleasure of meeting Thor’s parents when I vomited all over their kitchen and bathroom. I tried to be as quiet as I could. But the mother heard and came down, and I was totally embarrassed and wiped it up, but I figured it was a great first impression to make.

When I was done vomiting, more tranquilizers were given to me until I was once again docile enough to forget the complete insanity that was going on around me.

Thor set up a slideshow to show me some family classic. I looked at a couple of them just by putting them to the light and realized some were of naked children and they were a bit creepy. But it interested me a little bit. He came down with one carousel of slides. I thought this might be entertaining.

Then Thor went upstairs again and I heard him calling for his dad, and the next time I saw him he was stumbling back with a stack of about twelve carousels of slides. My half-closed eyes got huge and my jaw dropped as I suddenly realized that I was trapped here, about to be subjected to watching over 10,000 slides. All I could think was, Oh, shit.

I had slept too much to snooze through the presentation, but I was too tired to get the fuck out of there and drive home.

The fact that I was deeply disturbed must have shown through my face, and I was given another “raki” session. All Thor really had to do was to not play all these fucking slides and the “bad energy” would have left. Instead he insisted that all I needed was raki and a few more candles and maybe some incense. Things got progressively grosser. So the slideshow started.

I grabbed the clicker as to get through them as fast as possible. I start clicking . . . pictures of stars, flowers, mountains, blah blah. Nothing exciting. A couple of artsy pictures of naked babies that no longer interested me. Some cool ’70s looking shit came up but I just wanted to get through it. We got through about three carousels before embarking on one labeled “Mystery”. Creepy children’s drawings came up. Thor demanded that I stopped clicking and go back to the first one. I don’t know what it is about insane people or children, but they draw the creepiest shit to me, and I can’t look at their drawings without wanting to die.

So this drawing has a bunch of spirals and lines and explosions and shit on it and he starts going nuts. He points to a dot and screams “THIS IS ME...HOLY SHIT...THIS IS ME...AND THIS SPIRAL RIGHT THERE...THAT’S MY LIFE...AND THIS LINE THAT IS THE PATH THAT I WENT IN, AND THIS HERE IS WHERE I AM SUPPOSED TO GO...AND THIS HERE WAS MY PAST LIFE, AND LOOK HERE THERE’S AN ARROW THAT’S ME TOO...”

Thor embarked on this fucking tirade about how his creepy-ass drawing was something that he was meant to see at that exact moment and how it explained everything about his life thus far. I just sat back and wondered how many more pills he had, and if I could possibly kill myself if I took all of them.

Since we had met in a past life, I was not allowed to leave at this point. In fact, I was told, I was meant to see these drawings with Thor and they were to determine our future together. I had to half agree because I didn’t want my annoyance to be mistaken for bad energy and for another raki session to be performed on me.

I finally got to switch the slide, thinking that since there was really no order to these slides, this would be the last children’s drawing, so I could continue going through them really fast like I was doing before. Boy, was I wrong. The next four were children’s drawings, and the same thing happened. Except that I convinced Thor that one of them couldn’t have possibly been drawn by him because it was done in markers and that I knew that he never used markers to draw. I was driving myself nuts now. I was afraid I’d start turning into a big weird hippie if I hung out there too long.

After the four drawings and all the talk of past lives and this freak-out shit, I flipped to the next slide and it was a creepy guy pointing out right toward me. The next slide was someone’s name with a date under it like (1957-?). Then the next one was an atom bomb exploding. The next one was a drawing of a guy with a big pancake head and Thor lost his shit over that one too. I couldn’t take it. I was done with the slides.

I determined to depart the following morning. Thor and his family were also leaving at about seven A.M. to drive out to Kansas for Thanksgiving. Thor told me that I could sleep in and stay there after they left.

“But your parents don’t know me,” I said, “except for when I puked all over their floor.”

Thor assured me that there would be no problem. I was 5:30 A.M. before I could finally drift into drunken slumber.

Shortly thereafter, I woke up to screaming. I heard fragments like “ARE YOU CRAZY? SHE CANT STAY HERE!” and “WE NEED TO LEAVE NOW!”

Then I heard Thor counter, “SHE’S DRUNK! SHE CANT DRIVE HOME!”

I wasn’t, but after the incident in the kitchen, I buried my face in my hands and realized that Thor’s parents must think I am the worst alcoholic ever. So I stood up and got my stuff ready and Thor came down and apologized and I said I told him that they would not let me say.

“Fuck,” I added. “I wouldn’t let me stay.”

So off I went, but I forgot my cell phone. I contacted Thor and he agreed to mail the phone to me. I was so relieved that the whole experience was finally over. But there was one final nail in this coffin of a story.

While I was staying with Thor, I made an appointment at a women’s clinic to get this VD I have checked out. It was for the day I left his house. Since he had my phone, Thor was trying to call everyone to try to get a hold of me. He called my mother and talked to her, told her I lost my phone, and before hanging up on her, Thor told her to make sure that I didn’t miss my appointment at the gynecologist to get my warts checked out.

My mother. He told this to.

Thor swears that he was doing this so that I would not forget, and I actually believe him because he is so out there, but, Jesus Christ, who the fuck tells someone’s mother to make sure that her daughter gets her genital warts checked out?

I missed the appointment, by the way. His reminder did not help. Luckily my mom has had almost every VD on the planet, so it was not a huge deal, but that’s another story entirely.

Like I said, Thanksgiving is a special time for everyone. I wonder if I can top this year’s. I said the same thing last year. I fear that if I top this year’s I might not live through next year’s. I don’t know what it is about this season, but I end up meeting the most bizarre, scariest people that I ever come in contact with. I end up having sex with them and then puking all over their homes.

Beautiful stories, these are. I can’t wait until I have grandchildren to share them with.

Daddy-moon In Vegas

It has been so long since I lived with my alcoholic father, Big King, that I forgot how wonderful it was to spend time with him.

When I was fifteen, my parents got divorced and I was forced to move away from Daddy and ten years passed before I spent more than a daytime with him. Of course, I remember spending entire nights on the phone with him trying to convince him not to kill himself, not to kill my mother, and, more recently, not to come and kill one of my roommates.

Daddy has never divulged his real age. I guess he’s in his seventies. He can hardly breathe anymore and has to constantly be attached to oxygen. He’s also constantly attached to McDonald's senior coffees and high grade prescription narcotics. I figure that Daddy does not have much time left on this wonderful planet and, per his request, I decided to accompany him to a city that I believe fits us both very well: Las Vegas.

Las Vegas has of course changed many times over since it was built by the mob then overtaken by Howard Hughes, eventually evolving into the corporate family degenerate hellhole that it is today. I have not been alive for most of these changes, but my dad has, and it just seemed to be the most fitting place for us to go. Of course, no one took us for a father/daughter combination. Even two time zones away, I can't shake the hooker vibe, and I was consistently mistaken for a younger paid companion for my dad.

Except for Daddy’s occasional outbursts of frustration over being old and not being able to breathe or smoke or drink (his favorite pastimes), everything seemed to work out well. My dad had half his ulcerous stomach removed before he was forty because of drinking two gallons of vodka a day. He’s lucky to be alive, but he can't drink or smoke, or else he will die.

Daddy made quite a few statements in Vegas I will remember for the rest of my life. For instance, we were watching a free show at the Westward Ho casino and he told me he’d just seen a man about ten years his senior try to piss in the men’s room urinal, but he missed and soaked himself. Daddy said, “That's when I want you to put the gun to my head, Princess.”

Much of our week was spent walking about ten feet and having to sit down to rest and then getting up and repeating until we reached a McDonald’s, where Daddy would order another fifty-cent senior coffee, go to the bathroom, and take a shitload of pills. I got used to the old man's routine. I liked helping him with his oxygen, and even though he told me all these stories over and over again, I was glad to bond with him again. It was much different than when I was young.

My dad wants a woman. He wants me to find him one. I have no idea where to find him one. He is a nice man. I don’t know if his plumbing still works and really don't want to know, but things must be hard when you're that old (no pun intended). He has bottles of Viagra everywhere mixed up with various other thousands of pills, so I figure he must be using them for something.

Daddy actually did meet a woman in Vegas. She was from Guam, and they were at the same $3 blackjack table, and she stopped playing and started to massage his shoulders. I couldn't tell if she was just being nice or if she really wanted my dad. He got tired though and had to go back to the room. I took him back and then, upon returning, told the lady that my dad liked her.

She was pretty, in her forties or early fifties, and seemed to like my dad as well but was waiting to meet her daughter. She told my dad where to find her, though, if he ever went to Guam. Apparently Guam is only like thirty-five miles across and there is only one hospital there and she works as the only X-ray technician in the hospital. So I told Daddy that. He seemed to have hope. He figured out where Guam was and how long the flight was and he doubts that he could make it there on the plane. There's always hope though.

I thought about inviting this woman up to the room. But how fucking awkward would that be? Me making love connections for my dad and leaving the room while he was supposedly fucking this woman from Guam . . . No, thank you.

My dad and I have a weird relationship that sometimes borders on being slightly incestuous and weird, but that crossed a line even for me. Still, I would have liked to help the old man out.

As for me, I had no problem finding prospects to bring up to the room. That town is wonderful, and I can totally understand how people end up married without remembering it there. I talk about the disgusting scumbags in Chicago, and Las Vegas is just a whole other world. There are scrubs around every corner there and you barely have to make eye contact with them before they slime over to you and buy you a drink. That's the part I liked though. They buy you drinks a lot more there. And you don't even have to sit and smell their rat breath for ten minutes and pretend to be interested like I feel obliged to do back home.

Vegas freaks have interesting stories to tell, too. I mean if you like hearing about people's ruined lives and tragedies. About how they lost all their money, their car, their child, their spouse etc. etc. etc. ad nauseam. I would have brought a few of them back up to the room, but like I said, even though my relationship with my father is borderline inappropriate, I don't think I could fuck a guy while he was in the room. And I didn't trust any of these broken-down pee sacks to lead me to their roach dens to get a piece of me.

Overall the trip was a wonderful bonding experience. I have such a better understanding of what hell it is to get old and how much I want to put a gun to my head even sooner than I expected. People say, well you can just live healthier and then maybe you won't be that sick when you're old. If it's not one thing, though, it's another.

I wonder what'll get me in the end. My dad wants me to go pick out caskets with him next week. I can't understand why. It's not like you're going to give a shit what you're buried in once you're dead . . . the gold-trim casket with the Last Supper engraved in it, or a fucking pine box. But I think before I die I want to take as many trips to Las Vegas as possible. And if I do happen to get rich one day, and my dad is still alive, I'd like to fund a trip for him to Guam.

Molested At The Noise Show

What I wanted was close to rape or full-on molestation. What I got was somewhat close, although it was not completely one sided, as rape and molestation are known to be. It didn't hurt me . . . sexually. Really. It was more of a role play type action but nothing was ever said.

This happened at a Whitehouse show here in Chicago recently. For those who need to know, Whitehouse is a noise band that addresses rape and molestation and child murder and pedophilia. I really like Whitehouse and--figuring that their audience would contain as many genuine degenerates as it would extreme music fans--I was equally eager to see the crowd as I was the band.

When Whitehouse--two evil-radiating, egg-bald British sex-criminal-types--came out and kicked up their racket I wiggled right up to the stage. I was as close to the band as I could get, leaning against one of the speakers on the stage.

All their distortion-ripped aural bombardment and screaming about forced sex and agony elicited a bizarre feeling inside of me that was somewhat unfamiliar, but not completely. It put me in a mood I have forever enjoyed. I wanted to be touched. Badly.

He stood next to me--a fat, sickening troll of a man about twenty years my senior, but worlds apart from what I would find attractive. He was repulsive. He made me sick, this hideous, obese plug of a wastrel.

I watched Whitehouse as they made their noise and violently spouted hateful lyrics about hairless cunts and playground sex and crying and mommy and daddy and genitals and little girls and little boys, and while I was lost in this I felt him edge closer to me.

I felt his fat body rub against mine and I at first thought that since the show was so crowded, he must have been pushed toward me. But then instead of bumping into me he started to rub his fatness methodically and erotically up and down my side, paying close attention to graze my tit as much as he possibly could.

At first I could not figure out if it was the alcohol I’d consumed, or if maybe I was imagining it, or was this fat parasite actually trying to feel me up? And, for some odd reason, I did not want him to stop. So I stood there, confused, and still did not move. I let it happen.

Like I said, I did not participate, at least not actively. I only stood there, dead still, but his fat, swelling body kept getting closer and closer, and he started to graze my tit even more often until he was almost full-on feeling it up with his lardy arm. It was now extremely clear what was going on. I could have stopped it at any time. Physically, this hulk was disgusting, but I think if he was any less disgusting I could not have continued with this.

Soon enough, I could hear him wheezing in my ear. He breathed heavily, and slowly. I stood my ground, completely still, staring straight ahead, hearing Whitehouse describe exactly what seemed to be happening to me at that exact moment.

Then fatty made a bold move by actually moving his hand around my body, and started to feel my ass, rubbing it up and down and grabbing it. This was my time to make a move, to get away. Or not.

It was definitely happening now and I was in it. But I stared ahead, standing still as a corpse. Letting his fat sausage fingers continually grab my ass while he was rubbing his fatness full-on against my boob. I didn't rub back. It would have felt wrong. Everything felt wrong, but it felt right. No one spoke. If words were exchanged I would have stopped it.

His hand then went around my waist to the front of my pants where he proceeded to unbutton my pants and grazed his fat fingers over my piss-soaked vagina. This was now a good twenty minutes into the show. But I could not keep time. The band and the booze and what was happening proved too much for me.

All the cacophony and wailing about molestation and childhood and sex put me too much in the moment and all I could do was stand still and look ahead. I knew if I looked at him everything would fall to pieces because he was such a disgusting specimen, plus this was all an act. Something that we were both going through and experiencing, but without uttering a single word or exchanging any non-verbal signals. He did everything. A seemingly one-sided sexual experience, so much like molestation, except that while I was completely horrified, I cannot say that I did not enjoy it, and I could have gone on like that for another good four hours, but I knew when the band stopped playing it would be over.

At one time it did occur to me that we were surrounded by people, and that they could probably see what was going on no matter how discreet it was. I did for a moment wonder what they would think; if they thought I knew the fellow or did not. Or if they even cared.

Fatboy moved sideways to rub his dick against me to show me that he was hard. I never looked at him though. I continued to only look forward. I let him rub his fat hard-on against me while he shoved his fingers into my pisshole. I was in a trance again and thoughts of everything were flooding my brain: memories, thoughts of the moment, thoughts of other places, people, everything bombarded me. I imagined that he was my schoolteacher, my father, my brother, my former boss, a police officer, a priest, a pervert, a pedophile, an uncle, almost everything, and I imagined myself to be a student, a little girl, a prepuce, a daughter, a sister, a girl. Still, I looked forward and did not move.

It then occurred to me that this band would soon end. I did not want to do anything. I did not want him to stop. If he did stop, I would not protest. I refused to act as if anything was happening at all. I was very careful to keep my facial expression the same and not to move at all, to stay as still as a scared mouse. It was obviously a game we were playing and I liked the game a bit too much, as I'm sure he did.

Finally Whitehouse left the stage and I clapped, as did he, removing his tainted hand from my vagina. He continued to rub his hard-on against my leg though, and I turned around and walked away as if nothing happened, zipping up my pants on the way.

It was memorable. He was memorable. I really was curious to get a last look at him, just to see how fucking disgusting he really was, but I did not look back. I only hoped to have this kind of encounter again--with someone different, of course.

But it is sad because I know that the environment that I was in that night was so conducive to that sort of encounter. That band drew perverts, and I was one of them, as was this fat old man, and we had our fun. I was so glad that he did not approach me after the music was over. If he’d done that, I truly would have thought that he was terrible and everything would have been ruined, but he stayed away.

And that completed this really great experience for me. It was therapeutic, erotic, and amazing. So big ups to fat perverts, and may I find one again. A girl can only dream.

I Love VD

Since I am such a fun-loving skank and cannot get enough of talking about myself I'd like to share with you a peculiar growth I have noticed on my taint.

I'm sure if you have made it to this wonderful little website you by now are lucky enough to know what a taint is, but if you are deprived of that knowledge, a taint is the piece of skin between a woman's pussy-hole and her asshole. Men have taints as well; they just exist between their balls and their assholes.

As for my own taint, I do not know what this growth is. I have never had a venereal disease (VD) before, and I am excited. One time I did think I had the clap and I was so happy.

I can remember the phone call like it was yesterday. It was from my friend Charlie, who lives in Baltimore. He was sort of embarrassed and said he had some bad news. Then he let fly that he had the clap, and since I had fucked him several times that I might have it as well. In a rush of joy, I called everyone I knew and told them about acquiring the clap, and I told them to tell everyone they knew.

To me, having a VD is like having my pussy as a weapon. I mean a treatable one like Chlamydia is not so bad; I would have been bummed if he told me he had HIV. That's a bitch, to say the least. But your seed becomes a fucking arsenal.

If you can get past that whole fucking a person you hate to death thing, you can pass on a present that they may have for the rest of their life. I did, however go to the clinic to get the Chlamydia treated, and since it's so expensive to actually get the test to see if you have it, they automatically assume you do and give you the antibiotics.

I was so happy to have finally contracted a VD. I even got to get into a conversation with my mom where she accidentally revealed to me that she had had almost every VD on the planet. What a slut! And I never would have found that out without the admission that I had Chlamydia.

Alas, everything good soon turns sour and I got a call from Charlie two weeks later saying that in fact he did not have the clap and that they had just treated him for it at the hospital. His test results came up negative. I was real upset. And it made me look like a real illegitimate liar like I was lying about having the clap, when it really was not my fault.

As for this new development, I'm almost positive this is a genital wart. I'm really hoping. Even though I use protection when I slum from bar to bar getting fucked by these man-trolls, it could be from some of their decaying, lumpen balls hitting my taint during sex. I just really want to be legit on this STD shit, ya know?

I don't lie, and I don't want my reputation to go sour because of one fake VD screw-up. This time it's the real thing for sure. I just know it. I think warts might be with me for life, which is sort of annoying, but life is about compromises.

If I want to have a VD, I have to manage it. It's like a child except...no it's exactly like a child. A VD and a child are pretty much the same. But I'd rather have a VD. For now.

Suck Stardom

I could turn you into such a star.

You dare wouldn't miss your mark with me.

Are you good with directions?

Will you do a nude scene?

Are you shaved?

How big are your nipples?

Will you let me slam a two-foot-long dildo endlessly into your tiny virgin bleeding asshole while you squeal like some fucking rat pig?

IT'S ESSENTIAL TO THE CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT. I SWEAR.

...dear...babe...honey...sweetheart...

See that deviant slash-cut-hole between your skinny thighs? That hole from hell. After we shave that ape bush of yours you will.

And then I'll spread it open and force all sorts of things up into you. Nothing will quite fit. We'll have to really shove to get it in. You'll bleed a bathtub full.

And you’ll be a star, babe! A real star!

Like Jennifer Love Hewitt or Paris Hilton . . . You love those rich stinking cunts, don't you?

I know you love to watch television. You never turn it off. You leave it on all day while you poke and bleed all over your pretty little self just like you are bleeding now.

I wish I could fuck the holes you make in your body. Picture that needle as my hairy smelly big red cock, and you'll hate it.

The one thing you do to forget, and you can't.

You'll need to vomit.

You'll choke and sputter and come just this close to blacking out. This close to dying. Your eyes will turn white and suddenly you won't be able to cry anymore. Your throat will clamp tight. Your skull will pound. And I'll be cumming into your veins and I won't let you die. My sweat. My sperm. And your blood all over your entire existence. Your blood will taste exactly like me.

DEAR. SWEETY. HONEY.

You can go home now.

Really. Get dressed and go home.

Go ahead. Get out.

Bleeding from every orifice in your body.

Stretch that slut-fuck-me skirt over your flabby cottage cheese ass you fucking junky whore . . .

Get back on that corner of North and Rockwell and parade up and down . . . back and forth . . .

And we'll do it all over again.

This is not the end.

Only the beginning.

Just think...this stuff...all this stuff that's happening to you...it's just that you keep ending up with me. For no other reason that I was available at the right time.

Your bloated sickly slut body was hardly conscious at that bar. I saw you with your drunk, glassy eyes. Nothing anyone could do would've helped you. You wanted to come home with me to my sperm stench house and let this happen.

No books on how to say no.

No videos about bad touching or boundaries or how to stay safe.

No Barbra Walters specials or TV documentaries with helpful phone numbers or neighborhood support groups.

You were born for this.

It’s more than bad luck.

It all comes down to this.

And all the fun you had.

All the warmth that closeted you.

And all the love and care you fell for.

IT ALL ADDS UP TO SOME TAINTED PERSONALITY THAT FITS PERFECTLY OVER THE SHAFT OF MY DICK.

Fuck OK

After writing this, you think I would cry for myself, for the filthy, stinking turd that my life has become. But I do not. I have engulfed and gorged myself far too many times to care.

I forgot how it feels to be regular, to walk the streets and not be mistaken for a roach-infested junkie whore.

I have forgotten what it feels like not to be constantly slammed and poked and prodded by filthy slugs.

What does it feel like?

Are you okay, hon?

I hate that fucking question. I have always hated it.

Am I ok?

And the stupid shit-filled turd-mouth asking it wants a one-word answer. I'd like to meet the fucking plug that can honestly answer that question in one word and rip out their larynx because surely they are worthless. They are retarded and should never be allowed to utter another word and deserve nothing in their mouths except for a big, red horse cock.

Asking me if I'm ok...what fucking nerve. What a fucking personal question. Why don't you ask me how I would feel if I was given the limp dead body of my son? That's about as sick and personal a question.

Endless, it seems, a never-ending parade of depravity seems to rule my life. Smelly dirty cocks, women with their come-fuck-me miniskirts barely stretching over their monstrous thighs. The men with their cocks. The women with their bloated faces that make great extensions to those decayed shafts, or at least they think so.

What can they do to make this happen? How much does it cost? A dinner? A drink? A compliment? We are all whores. I know you. I know them.

I do not know why men want to put their dicks into me instead of say the stump of a tree or a coke bottle.

Why some men want me to burn them with cigarettes . . . or piss on me . . . or eat out my asshole?

I have never been "sexy". I can't be. I'm eleven years old, for fuck's sake, and that bastard is making me suck his fat dick in his parents' basement. Licking and sucking his hard-on and squeezing his balls and hoping that he comes before he kills me. All while the television blares blithering nonsense that I am trying to pay attention to. His dick looks just like yours, motherfucker, and you don't fool me for one fucking minute. You owe me even for my fucking time, you cocksucker.

I shouldn't be doing this.

This is not supposed to happen.

How did I get this way?

Did they teach me this in Sunday School?

How did I learn to be such a filthy whore?

A hole to suck and fuck.

When he fucks my mouth, he fucks my whole history. His way of celebrating women's lib and Gloria Steinem. He comes on me--me, the walking dead.

I feel and suffer my slow inexorable death. I am the terminally Ill. A pariah. An untouchable. The unloved and unlovable. The lowest of the low. Scarred from a year in bed.

Slash In The Gland

All of you out there in Pervertland, if you read this rather obscure little column of mine, are likely bent enough to be familiar with “slash” fiction.

But, until recently, I never had been.

What happened recently is that the medical director of an organization that I work for absolutely lives for slash.

Everyone has his own perversions, and becoming a doctor or lawyer or entertainer or even a priest (especially a priest) does not make them go away.

I really don’t think slash is that perverse, and that is why it is so fascinating to me. I can’t get over the idea that it is really funny. I just cannot take it seriously.

Let me explain: Slash is pornographic fan-fiction. The phenomenon developed in the 1970s with, naturally enough, Star Trek.

Some people really liked Star Trek, but they were not exactly satisfied with the plot. They wanted Captian Kirk and Spock to be lovers. So these fans would write their own stories based on this concept, and they would be titled “K/S” for Kirk/Spock.

So like anything that is fucking geeky-as-hell, slash has drawn a bunch of nuts to it that elaborate on the erotic doings of characters from Harry Potter, Planet of the Apes, and Lord of the Rings.

In fact, Lord of the Rings is intensely popular among slash writers because the story is chock-full of boyish elves and hobbits and what not, and the butt-fucking combinations are nearly endless!

I also have a rather controversial theory about Lord of the Rings, but so far I am the only one who thinks this. As much as I know, I think it might be a lot about boy sex and have a small pedophiliac edge to it, but who knows. I’m not going to go on about that, but the first time I saw slash drawings of Lord of the Rings characters I thought they looked like young boys.

Slash is further more bizarre as a form of pornography that mainly draws women to it. There are some men that are all about slash, but the vast majority of them are women, and most of these women are lesbos.

This makes sense when you read the stories because there is little suck-and-fuck action, but lots of softness and loving. The characters caress and look lovingly into each other’s eyes. The slash reads more like a harlequin romance novel then your basic Penthouse Forum type of story.

So it is a feminine smut. Feminine and nerdy.

Most of what I know about slash came from a long article in a local newspaper last week wherein this highly honored addiction specialist with whom I work came out about her slash obsession. She went so far as to elaborate on how slash actually saved her life!

It came down to this woman kicking chemicals and replacing her obsession for them with slash. Since doing so she has met a lover, made friends, and her life has improved dramatically. I hope she doesn’t read this. Of course I make no judgments about her, because I know that I’m a fucking weird perv, and I only wish I could find something like Hobbits fucking to write stories about because, Lord knows, I need to be saved soon.

Before knowing about the good doctor’s slash proclivities, I had been to her house several times. She often throws Christmas parties, birthday parties, and any other special occasions in her home.

And, in retrospect, I noticed things that could have tipped me off to her slashiness. Like the two bookshelves she had that extended to the ceiling and were filled with J.R.R. Tolkien books or Tolkien-esque novels, or novels on Tolkien, or Tolkien’s novels, or characters from Tolkien’s novels, or . . . you get the idea.

The rest of the doctor’s house is decorated rather lavishly, with frames without pictures in them, and really nice expensive furniture, and everything looks perfect, almost like out of one of those beautiful homes magazines.

But then, amidst this conventional paradise, there are various oddities, like stand-up life-sized cardboard cut-outs of characters like Elijah Wood as Frodo from Lord of the Rings. Sean Astin as Sam is also there, as tall as he would really be, amongst about three other life-sized cut-outs of beautiful boy-men hobbit elves from the Lord of the Rings movies.

The computer room figures as the most important place in the house, because that is where the slash is written, and read, and relationships are made and broken between various slash fans.

Pasted on the computer-room walls are huge collages of various Lord of the Rings characters, some in poses that I really cannot recall being in the movies. It struck me as odd initially. But now it all makes sense.

I am not mocking this woman or her passion. Again, I only wish that I had an outlet like slash where I could drastically help myself with all of my mental-health issues by writing about elves caressing each others privates.

I know that everyone is a pervert, but some porn is just funny and fucking weird to me, and she is a protagonist of geeky hobbit erotica, and this just makes me happy.

Will NOT Work For Dick

It is said to be the world’s oldest occupation, and I can believe it. The urge to procreate or fuck is one that unites the world, or most of it. People need to procreate to keep on going. History is full of stories of prostitutes and sex workers, and I respect that.

I have also done my fair share of sex work, which includes me posing nude for photographs, fucking strangers and sucking a girl’s asshole in movies, snuffing lit cigarettes out on a guy’s feet, and spitting in freaks’ faces, but from what I remember I have never actually accepted money from a guy for intercourse. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, and I’m sure I’ve done far more bizarre things. But wherever I go, people seem to think I am a prostitute.

My neighborhood is mostly Puerto Rican and not the nicest area in the city, but I don’t mind it. I just wish that I could lose the neon sign floating above my head that apparently screams out: “PROSTITUTE! WILL FUCK FOR MONEY! PLEASE INQUIRE!”

Then maybe people would leave me alone.

There have been times when I would have loved to get paid, times when I have had sex where I swear I should have gotten paid, but never times when I did. I don’t even get dinners or movies or rides home, maybe a drink if I’m lucky. But I’ll be damned if I can walk two blocks down the street, head facing the ground, in my dirtiest, most disgusting outfit without some monkey-shit giving me a “psssst” or pulling over his car and asking me if I want a ride.

At a better time, when I was more naïve, I used to think that these men were actually kind enough to want to give me a ride in their car somewhere because they did not want to see a lady walking outside by herself, especially in my neighborhood.

But I have learned, by actually getting into these pseudo-Samaritans’ cars and getting kicked out half a block later when they learned that I had no intention of putting their infested cock anywhere near my body, that they had no intention of delivering me to my destination and making my life easier. They just want me to suck them off or fuck them in the backseat or in an alley or in their apartment.

So I ignore such come-ons. Now.

I am, in fact, very pro-prostitution and I think it should be legalized, but I just want people to leave me alone. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.

As a kid, when I’d travel to the city from the suburbs with my father, he would pick out women and nudge me and say, “See her, that’s a prostitute.”

And these women, to me, just looked like everyone else, so I would always ask him how he knew. They were not wearing six-inch red high heels, miniskirts, and tube tops, like I thought that all prostitutes wore at the time. They were regular people doing regular things.

They also never stopped my dad and asked him anything, for a fuck or for some money. And I don’t remember these particular women even looking at my father funny, but he could pick them out of a crowd as if they were wearing big billboards that said “Ten dollars a fuck!”

Daddy always knew though, and he never hesitated to cloud my already-traumatized mind with ideas about these women. So I figure that I must have the same stench as these women did. The ones that my dad would pick out of a crowd and just know that they were selling sex for money. Which would be great for advertising if I wanted to fuck for money, but I don’t.

So how do I get this stench off of me? I have no idea! I could take a billion showers and not wash it off. I tried. I try to dress differently. It doesn’t matter. I try to make myself ugly, and they still proposition me. I leave my head down, and constantly stare at the ground, so as not to make eye contact with anyone . . . and the cars still follow, and honk, and crawl down alleys after me.

The other downside of being a prostitute that sucks for me is the fact that it is illegal. Not only do these cum-draining johns bother me, but the Chicago Police Department’s perv patrol is almost as bad.

Now that I have lived in this neighborhood for almost a year and most of the police have seen me and have never been able to catch me doing anything illegal, they have almost stopped bothering me, but when I first moved here, they’d stop me all the time and ask me what I was doing and always ask me if I was “working” and tell me that they would catch me and put me in jail. I guess they smelled the same stench.

Oh, and I won’t forget about the great tenants who lean out their apartment windows and yell, “You and your TRASH should stay out of our neighborhood. You’re RUINING it!”

Alas, there is no way of winning this battle unless I stop leaving the house entirely. I have even worn a shirt that declares, “I am not a prostitute.” But instead of making things easier, the shirt makes life harder, by drawing the regular creeps that stop and talk to me and then stupid idiots that want to comment on my fashion sense.

I am out of ideas. In the meantime, I have grown accustomed to it, and I am ever-vigilant and always expecting a little Mexican peanut-looking man to jump out of a garbage can and say, “Psssst . . . mamasita . . . how much?” And I reply by saying “NO” every possible way, verbally, and manually, using as many parts of my body and as many international signals I know for the word NO.

There are all of these clichés like “When in Rome . . .” and “If you can’t beat them, join them” that all tell me I should just collapse and give in to my fate, and since everyone else knows it, why the hell don’t I?

So maybe I should just start getting money for sex. Maybe the ultimate solution is to crawl into the garbage can with the little peanut-looking Mexican. I don’t know the answer.

For now, I’ll just wear a bag over my head until I come up with a better idea.

Em-bare-ass-ing Moments

Sex is not glamorous and it is often disgusting. I have had many sexual experiences and many of them were with degenerate slugs whose rat breath was their most charming aspect. Still, I keep plugging onward.

I have also survived more than my share of embarrassing moments on the sex front. And I mean beyond just embarrassing--I mean humiliating nightmares beyond even what you might read in Seventeen magazine about a girl getting her period while driving on a first date to TGI Fridays and staining the dude’s Pontiac Firebird seats with menses blood.

Boy, can I top that. Three times.

Shit Volcano.

My faithful readers know of my ambivalence toward anal sex. I’ve tried it three to five times and it always felt like I was taking a big shit, only not in an enjoyable way. But I left one detail out previously.

While I was fucking my second long-term boyfriend, he brought up wanting to pound me in the poo-hole. I didn’t want to and, more than that, I wanted him to be sickened by the thought. And, believe me, he was.

He stuck his dick up my ass and it was in there for about six minutes and I didn’t like it, but I thought that the longer we went at it, the less I might mind it. So I said nothing and we had ass-sex for about 10 minutes, until I could not possibly stand another second. I squealed and he pulled out.

Sure enough, his dork was covered with liquid shit. And, in addition, his quick removal prompted some sort of spasm out of me and I sprayed a hot blast of diarrhea on the wall behind us. There wasn’t a ton of it, maybe just a quarter cup or so. But that did the trick.

Let me just note here that this was, and remains, the only time that liquid shit has shot out of my asshole.

We both had a good laugh about it, once the doot was scrubbed up.

I had wanted this experience to make both of us either love or hate anal sex, and we both ended up hating it. So my job was done.

Dirty Doc.

This flea-infested garbage dump of a Pakistani scumbag who was twice my age and claimed to be a doctor once approached me in a bar. I was trying to leave when this rodent made his pass.

He wanted to give me a ride, but I got a sick vibe from him, so I said that I was walking the mile or so to my apartment. He wanted to come along. I told him that he could walk with me for one block, just because he was so insistent.

Naturally this waste-case followed me all the way to my front door. And then, just as naturally, he tried to wedge himself in the front door with me. I told him that I had three huge male roommates who would stomp his ass. He was undeterred and attempted some forced making-out on me.

I banged on the walls and kept pushing him away. My roommate finally opened the door and saw this mouth-pig trying to slobber his decay-stink all over me. In a flash, the malignant medic bolted out the door and down the street. I wasn’t scared as much as I was nauseated. Nothing happened, but it was a close call.

Since then, I have had nothing to do with dirty docs. In fact, it rattled my whole perception of flesh-pressing encounters. Many times, I don’t know if I am meant to be having sex with a person or a toilet. Often enough, they seem to be the same thing.

Home Movie.

Back in high school, it was a very big deal for this boy I liked to be coming to my house. He and I were going to watch movies. I was hoping that that was just a pretense for making out, which it did turn out to be.

I threw a tape in the VCR. I think it was the movie River’s Edge. It was on some old cassette that I just recorded over. About an hour into the action, he and I started getting into action of our own on the couch.

We went at it pretty feverishly, not noticing or caring that the movie ended and that the tape just kept playing.

Suddenly, I heard: “Come on, Meg! You can do it! Just try harder!”

It was my parents. Both of them.

Their voices were coming out of the television. They were on the tape that was running.

Frantically, I tried to find the remote control, but it was too late. The guy I was with looked up and saw the video image of seven-year-old me in a ballerina costume trying to ride a bicycle for the first time.

Again, we both heard my parents cry out: “Come on, Meg! You can do it! Just try harder!”

I hated watching home videos of myself under ideal circumstances, but this was another dimension of mortification. I felt as though Mom and Dad were right in the room with me, egging on my juvenile sexual experimentation.

How much easier it would have been to bleed period mess all over his car and/or ruin my prom dress than to deal with this. I had to stop what we were doing right there, in the cathode glow of myself as a second grader.

It was too bad, too. I hardly got any action at all in high school.

The Big Blow Off

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A Short History of My Short-Hairs

It’s a fact of life. Everyone has it. Some people try to hide it by getting rid of it. Some people try to make it look more attractive by having it cut or waxed or even shaved into pretty shapes like hearts and stars, but the fact of the matter is that almost every person has pubic hair. Some have an abundance, some are more sparse, but pubic hair is a great human equalizer.

There is probably some evolutionary reason for us having pubic hair, although I have no idea what it is. I also don’t know much about pubic hair or the answer to popular questions like, “Does the carpet match the drapes?”

I wish I could write some facts about this stuff here; it would make a good introduction; however I can’t . . . The only thing I can provide here is a short history of my introduction to pubic hair and a short history of me and my own pubic hair.

I rack my brain trying to remember when that first hair sprouted out of my crotch and I knew that I was close to becoming pubescent, but I really don’t remember. I do remember the first time I saw pubic hair on a woman, and I bet that most people would guess that it was my mother. Well, it was not. It was much more traumatic.

To this day, thinking about this event rattles me. I was very young and taking swimming lessons at the YMCA. One of those horrible women who love to walk around the locker room in the nude came into the showers while I was showering in my bathing suit. She was a redhead and promptly removed her bathing suit, and her daughter removed hers. I stared at the mother, in awe of her huge red bush. Then I looked at her daughter, also a redhead, and about my age, and her bare little vagina. The sight of the two of them was so confusing to me.

You see, my family was not a “nude” family, and I was always glad for this. But looking at this woman and noticing her . . . she was fat, had rolls, a huge stomach pouch, breasts that dangled to her stomach, and then this . . . this hair, all over her “flower” as I was taught to call it as a kid.

It was disgusting. It looked like Bozo was right there, caught between her legs. I did not understand why she had hair there. I still to this day curse women who walk around the fucking locker room naked. I think I would have been less traumatized by walking in on two men buttfucking in the showers than to see this saggy-sacked monstrosity wash out her big red bush.

The next time I saw pubic hair, it was my mother’s, when she was douching, and it was a lot less unnerving. I remember being way more fascinated by the big bright orange douche bottle than the fact that she had hair down there. Plus her pussy hair was brown, not red . . . far less disturbing for me. And it was a lot less. But I digress.

I want to start talking about the history of my own pubic hair, but there are so many experiences that are coming to mind now that I am fixating on pubic hair, my mind is being flooded with them and it is hard to concentrate.

Puberty hit me late. I remember sprouting a few hairs but always not really wanting a whole lot. I never wanted to look like that clown-crotch at the YMCA. From then on, I hated wooly crotches, although to this day (for the most part) mine remains hairy. But that is more out of laziness than anything else. If it were up to me, I would have a finely waxed vagina all of the time.

When I was about eighteen, my friend told me that she and her boyfriend had both completely shaved their genitals, thereby making their sex so much more amazing. She told me to try it. Boy, that was a mistake. They didn’t explain to me how I was supposed to get rid of the hair, and it turned really messy.

I went into my mother’s bathtub and just took the disposable razor that had been sitting on the tub since I was fifteen to my crotch (my mom had stopped buying disposable razors after she had chemotherapy and her armpit hair went away forever).

So there I was trying to scrape this dull blade across my crotch. I got a bunch of hairs stuck in it, and washed them out, and repeated this over and over. Soon, the whole tub was filled with little curly hairs. I had no idea how to get out of this one. The last talk I wanted to have with my mom is the “I see you’re shaving your pubes” talk.

I tried to wrangle all the little hairs up and shove them all into the drain, but it was way too hard. Pubes have a special way of sticking to the wall of a tub as if to say, “Hey everyone! Look, someone in here tried to shave her cootch!” (This has happened to me on more than one occasion.)

My snatch ended up looking like a blind man took a razor to a cat. There were tufts of uneven hair next to splotches of baldness. It was a complete mess. I just hoped that no one would notice until it grew back. The worst part about it though was the fucking itching. It wouldn’t stop, so I was constantly scratching my crotch, obviously looking like I had some sort of VD. I just kept scratching and waited for it to grow back.

This sort of set the pace for me shaving my pubic hair. I’m horrible at it. I try to do it at times, but it never turns out looking how I want it to. I know I could get it waxed, but there’s something wrong with that to me. One day I might. As a result, my bush is usually all there for the most part. I’d like it nicely groomed, but I’m too lazy to go all out.

It’s obvious that I have an above-average amount of pubic hair. I had another locker-room tragedy in high school, and that, coupled with my earlier YMCA trauma, helps me never to be too self-conscious about the amount of pubes I possess.

My two best friends were twins who also subscribed to the repulsive “walk around the locker room naked” philosophy. These girls had pubes down to their knees. Whenever I get down on myself thinking my pubic hair is out of control, I just think of these twins and realize that at least it is not as unruly as theirs, and at least I don’t walk around locker rooms naked, and then usually I’ll cut it with scissors.

I generally don’t take a razor to it anymore. Like I said, when I do that, it usually looks like a rat who has been attacked.

Maybe somebody out there likes that.

The Eternal Appeal of Incest

People say that prostitution was the very first profession, at least the pimps do when they’re trying to talk me into a new and interesting occupation. It makes sense though; as long as there were women, there was sex, and before money even existed, people exchanged goods and services to be with these women.

Now if you are Bible-carrying folk--or even if you are not--it would seem to me that in order to procreate, incest had to exist. It exists in the natural world all over. Most animals have been known to procreate by sleeping with brothers, sisters, mothers, or fathers.

Royalty, dating from very far back until the present day, has been rumored to fuck family members to keep the regal blood in the family. It is also rumored that this accounts for how fucking weird world leaders have been throughout history. You get a family that constantly fucks each other and then give them a bunch of power and all this bizarre history happens.

Incest is very off-putting and rarely talked about among most people. It has always interested me. Not necessarily because of its rich history, just because anything that is viewed as being a very deviant sexual practice interests me.

As far as any other deviant sexual practices such as pedophilia or any type of fetish (foot, balloon, baby, monkey), incest seems the most natural to me. I mean who is closer to a person than their family? And it did take me some time when I was young to learn that you were supposed to love your family, but you weren’t supposed to “love” them.

I experienced this sort of “love” for a family member first with my cousin Danny. He was about seven years older than me, and around the age of five or six, I used to follow him all over the house and tell him how cute he was. And he was!

Boys appealed to me early on, especially my family members. I could even go far enough to say that cousin Danny was my first crush. He was already past the age of knowing that incest was not cool, and eventually I reached that age...I think.

When parents give a sex talk to their kids, there has to be some kind of “you should not be attracted to your brother or cousin” addendum. Or maybe most people don’t need it. I don’t recall ever having one. When I was young, no one ever discouraged me from following little Danny around, so I figured it was okay. But then I somehow realized it was not.

My father forever hammered the idea into my mind that our family was descended from an incestuous relationship between my great grandmother and great grandfather, whom I never met, but who shared the same last name of Flood. They were said to be first cousins.

It is a belief that one of the reasons that incest is socially forbidden is the fact that the offspring of the incestuous couple will grow up to be insane and their brains won’t properly develop. Sometimes it means that they will become geniuses, other times it means that they will be retarded. That’s a fine line anyway. Other times, I’ve heard, incest babies have a bluish tint to their skin, like Smurfs.

What I deduce from this is that if you fuck a cousin, you get a really cool kid.

So back to my great grandparents. I don’t know if my father made this little fact up just from his bizarre sense of humor--or because he is insane and needs a reason for it--but I have heard the same thing from other family members on his side, who are also not all there mentally.

Family fucking would definitely make sense in my bloodline, considering my great aunts and uncles. Two of them died in mental hospitals. One of them became a nun. One of them was a homosexual and a pedophile who sold socks and contraceptives on the street to make a living. Another was a homeless alcoholic hustler.

And then there was my grandmother. She was a very cruel alcoholic who managed to spawn four of the most bizarre children ever. Each generation is supposed to be a bit less insane, and they are, but they are far from being close to normal. All have problems. Too many to list.

I have always fantasized (especially when I was growing up an only child) about having a brother who was around my age who was my best friend, and who could be there for me throughout my freakshow childhood and witness what went on in my home and help me make sense of it all.

I wish I could craft him myself, so that he was a male version of me and he’d have all the same problems and redeeming qualities as me, and he would completely understand me and one day we would run away and get married. I could have fantasized this all happening with a friend, but when I was a kid it was a sibling--and not a sister, a brother.

Then Dream Brother and I would have all these kids that were blue and retarded and we’d live on a big empty lot in the desert and maybe start a cult (this is a bit more of me getting older, like my junior-high fantasies).

Just thinking about how perfect this would all be excites me all over again. I wish I had a brother. All of my cousins are too lame to carry my plan out. None of them would go along without some kind of mind-control device.

Even though Danny has disappeared from the family because his mother is an intolerable greedy bitch, and he has a real taste for cocaine, I think he would still be the best option in the family for me to execute this plan. I’m sure if he ever heard this he would be horrified and never want to talk to me again. Maybe not.

There is another thing I think about all the time regarding incest. I have discovered on a couple of different occasions in my life that I had more brothers and sisters than I thought I had.

Papa was a rolling stone and he drank a lot and was with a bunch of women who I guess were popping babies out left and right. We were always changing our identities when I was growing up because he did not want to pay child support for all these kids.

Sometimes I meet people and think that they could very well be one of my brothers or sisters. I’d like to think that it has happened and will happen again, but it is a far stretch, I know.

If I found out that someone that I was with was actually my brother, I would be more intrigued than angry. Things like that do happen. I love to entertain the fact that that possibility exists. It makes me feel better about the world.

Things That Have Been Up My Ass

“Things that have been up my ass.”

The phrase itself makes me uneasy.

I am not an ass girl, and have never really been.

Well, there was one phase of about six months when I was reading a ton of Marquis de Sade and like-minded libertine literature and they kept talking about how great ass sex was, and I admit I was totally drawn to it. And then I tried it. And it felt just like taking a big shit to me.

So I waited about three years and again got that stupid urge to put someone’s penis in my ass, and it felt exactly the same--like taking a shit that was too massive for me to handle. I figured you had to maybe get your asshole stretched out and do it a couple of times before it was enjoyable, but I do not enjoy pain in my anus. I have a hard enough time shitting (which you’ll hear about soon). So I just could not bear to ever have anal sex again, and I realized that my asshole was “exit only” (I can’t believe I just said that).

Thus a story regarding “things that have been up my ass” seemed to hold no promise. But then I said to myself, Lil Princess, think of all those times you couldn’t shit and you had to shove all that stuff up your ass to make you shit, the time that you went along and let someone shove a string of beads up your ass...oh and of course the drugs that have been up your ass, so many times.

I realized that a lot of things have been up there. I just had to stop focusing on the erotic and get to the down and dirty. So here is my list of things that have been up my ass.

Suppositories

Constipation is my life. I’ve sought relief in suppository form. It was no type of exciting suppository, but it was just one with some stimulant in it that makes you shit as soon as you slide the little lubed peanut up your ass. The trouble is keeping it up there. I know my sphincter is tight, but I was so afraid it would slide out. It did the first time, but then I got the hang of it.

Once it works, your ass pretty much like starts going crazy and convulsing until shit comes out. If (and pray this never happens to you) it actually falls out before it effects you too much, some of the medicine remains on it and it burns so bad, and then it starts itching, and you can’t get it off without a full shower. It’s horrible. But even if you do it all proper and leave it up there, and then shit, some medicine still sticks to your sphincter and innards and let me tell you . . . it sucks!!

Enemas

It’s pretty self-explanatory why someone would use such a device. Although some do irrigate themselves for pleasure, I don’t like ass-play. So I did use it for some serious constipation, like when those little suppositories would fall out or just not work.

The enema is the granddaddy of all laxatives or anything that exists to make you shit. It’s such a simple idea: a big jar with some salt water in it attached to a tube that goes up your ass. I don’t even like to think about this one, but, yes, I have tried it, a couple of times, and when you use it, you can’t expect anything gentle. You must brace for an EXPLOSION, and it is so unpleasant. To me. Other folks just love enemas so much they will do them all the time.

I have done so much to help me get back on track with my bowels, and this one definitely works, but it is by far the most violent. As far as what goes up your ass, it’s a little tube, so it is barely bothersome, but when the water comes is the terrible part.

Fingers

Whether they have been my own digits, or someone else’s for whatever reason (medical, presumed pleasure, or to pull gobs of shit out of my anus) fingers have been up my ass.

For many reasons, mostly listed above. I never mind when it’s in a medical setting because it is so clean and dry, and for some reason I can NEVER feel their fingers. But in any other situation it’s not good. Again, to me.

Penises

The Marquis De Sade--who at one juncture was my biggest crush--rails on an awful lot about anal sex, so I figured it had to be the best thing around. Once I gave it a crack, I felt like I was taking the hugest dump of my life. And the second time, since the penis was much smaller, it felt like I was taking the second hugest dump of my life.

I think the secret to all of this is trying over and over, but I am not about to jeopardize my ass like that and go through all that pain. I would, however, like to perform anal sex on someone else, but I do not have the right parts for that. But, for me, no more sexy ass stuff.

Anal beads

Please understand that these sex toys were not used in any sexy sort of way. I was taking pictures with three people, and one of them had these beads, and I did not know what the hell they were, or what they were used for. But they were red and latex and looked nice.

So I asked the host and he replied, “They’re anal beads; would you like to try them?”

I could not believe that people put that many beads up their asses, because they were like a foot long. And they started out small and got to one massive bead in the middle and then went back to being small.

But I was curious so I said yeah and then I put tons of lube on them, and I put them in and I was amazed how far they went in, after I pulled them out. I thought with that many beads up your ass and you would rupture an intestine or something. But I walked away unharmed. And not aroused.

Drugs

There are two distinct ways that drugs have played a part in my anal cavity.

One is what most people would assume, you buy drugs, you don’t want the cops to find out about your little secret in case they pull you over. So you shove them up your ass in some kind of cigarette cellophane or something because otherwise you could be in great trouble. And also when doing this be sure not to put them up too far, because then you lose them or you have to fork through your shit to find them. That has never happened to me.

I have not had drugs up my ass too many times. That’s more of a masculine job, so I try to never have to do it, but there have been exceptions. This does not really hurt that much, I think, only because you know that your drugs are safe and warm in your anus.

The other entry for drugs into my rectum is referred to as “stuffing”. It is supposed to carry close to the same high as actually shooting the drug into a vein, but without any of the hassles that come with it. I tried it once, just to see how it went. You have to have the drug in liquid form and then stand on your head and put the drug in a syringe without a needle on it and shove it up your ass. Then you stay on your head, hopefully propped against a wall, until it gets completely in and does not leak out. I have read that the ideal time is thirty minutes, but that seems ludicrous to me. So lots of mine leaked out, plus it burned my ass. I really don’t recommend this, but I do think it is interesting that drugs have found their way up my ass not one but two times.

Making My Own Mess

In my life, I have lived in rooms made out of tarps, rooms full of cat shit, lived in places that got regularly raided by cops, where Mexican drug dealers slept on pillows of cocaine in order to keep it safe. I am definitely not bragging about how tough I am or where I’ve been, I am merely trying to gauge my current situation in all of this. I have always had some kind of partner through all of this. But I think the thing that helped me get through the chaos was all the drugs and alcohol I was ingesting.

I only did sleepy drugs (alcohol, heroin, benzos, etc.). No coke or crack or anything like that. I would do anything to be asleep through that misery. I can never understand people that live in total shitholes with other disgusting pieces of shit that are addicted to meth or something and don’t sleep for weeks at a time. Why would you want to be awake through that? I mean if you’re famous and you have a lot of money, and a pool and stuff, I guess I can understand prolonging things. I still stick to this decree--doing only downers--only now all the downers I do are legal, at least for me, and only for me.

Time was I used to have sheets on my bed. Now I notice that I do have one sheet, which has been bunched up into the corner of my bed for the past week. I wish I could gain the energy to put my sheet on, because I eat in my bed so much there is food debris in it and also coins that get stuck to my back. When I get up in the morning it sounds like someone dumping out a change purse because of all of the change falling onto the floor.

My father is really old and has emphysema and broken discs in his back and all kinds of ailments. I looked in his room last week, and his bed was perfectly made. It was so nice, it looked untouched. I asked him if he ever sleeps in his room, because he’s always in this recliner next to which he has set up shelving for all his drugs, breathing supplies--even a coffee warmer with his coffee cup on it--but he replies that he slept in his room last night and the night before, he just makes the bed every day. It struck me at that point that people do make their beds. I always found that so pointless because you’re just going to get into it and mess it up anyways. But I guess it looks nice.

When I do wake up, which is at some ungodly late hour usually, the first thing I wake up to is the big empty can of cashews sitting next to me. And then I see the various empty bottles of Gatorade and Orange Crush next to me. At many times in my life there was a person there. I often didn’t like that person, but now it is empty bottles of shit.

Wasn’t I supposed to grow out of this phase in college or something?

Well I wasn’t exactly the typical college student. While my classmates were binge drinking and dancing on tables, I was poking needles in my arm and falling over tables. But, shit, I still got through collage with a solid B-average. It’s not like people don’t know that there’s something wrong with you, but when you’re in art school that makes you “eccentric” and therefore acceptable. Or that’s what happened to me, at least.

I keep thinking I’m going to give up soon. Not give up and kill myself, but lose all motivation for anything whatsoever. Still, I keep subtly pushing myself. I use drugs that sedate me, but they’re all prescribed. Not that that makes them any better for me, I just find it funny that I’m able to support a big drug habit and have it all be legal. And I look like Bill Gates compared to my goddamned roommates.

I have roommates that steal from me and others to support their own habits. I have roommates who get drunk and rant about saving the children in the neighborhood, while dismissing all of their parents as spics and niggers. Since I was seventeen I’ve lived in about eleven places, with about fifty different people. They are all funny for their own reasons. But they make me fucking sick when I’m living with them; only upon separation do I start to appreciate them. Not all, but some.

But I just sit and look at my room and realize that I have given up on this room and I wonder what other areas of my life I have given up on. But it’s hard to have a place with a perfectly clean room when the room is so small, and you have so much stuff, and the rest of the house is a shithole. I guess I could start by making my bed. But it’s so inane.

People ask me if they can come over a lot. I cannot ever let them do it. They say things like, “Oh my house is messy, it doesn’t bother me.” And the few times I have believed that line, when they enter where I live they are obviously disturbed, and rarely come back. If they really like me, they continue to contact me by telephone and never come back again. The only one that comes back is this guy I used to live with who stays with this man who is three times his age “for free” but he actually has to do all these sex favors for him, so he comes over for refuge.

The neighborhood I live in is littered with drug dealers, and it reminds me of when I used to come down here everyday to get my drugs. It would be so convenient for me to go back to using the heroin, but this substitute is a beautiful thing. For me at least. I know I’m just sucking the same milk from a different tit, but for some reason, I don’t care. I have come home many times to friends lying unconscious in my house from overdoses, so I shoot them with Naloxone, and it wakes them right up. It happens so often that it’s an almost immediate reaction for me. But luckily, it’s the only reason I don’t have stacks of dead-friends trading cards.

I’m still getting used to not being in school. I was in there for so fucking long. I thought something major would happen after. I was going to move. But I did not because I got a job offer here. I should have just bolted like I wanted to. Maybe. Who knows. Everything started out and it seemed so easy. But now it has been about ten years of self abuse and I’m still stuck in it one way or the other, but like I said I feel like I’m supposed to be concerned, but I’m not. I’m more concerned about the state of my room.

School was always so safe because I was doing something everyone approved of. Now I have a bunch of jobs, all that are satisfying, but none of them are office jobs or more importantly jobs with benefits. I recently had to have my teeth overhauled, because I had about twenty cavities (thanks to the drugs), and my mother paid for my teeth to get fixed. It was the very first thing she has paid for in years, and it was nice of her to fix them, but the guilt will not stop. That is my mother though. She offers to pay for something only to pour on the guilt. I realize this is all over the place, like a diary entry. I just want to stop waking up with change stuck to me and stop looking over and seeing bottles all over my bed.

Sister Dearest

My father made sure that I had about five different last names when I was growing up. There was our actual family moniker, but then sometimes he insisted we be called the “Hacks” or the “Smutneys” or the “Mansons” (these aren’t the real bogus names we used; I’m just giving examples).

This led me to believe that I and my parents were some kind of super-cool spy family that had to hide from the government. It turns out that we did have to hide from a Higher Authority, but not for anything as cool as international intrigue.

But one of the main reasons we had such fluid surnames, I was told, was due to an “evil woman” known as Vera.

When I was about ten, I found out that Vera was an ex-lover of my father’s. Their union, in fact, produced a child. Now my father is not really Deadbeat Dad material. This Vera is the real villain of the piece. She whelped forth nine children, one of whom drowned when he was a baby; another graduated from Harvard. And she held my family in a grip of terror.

I wasn’t allowed to answer the door or pick up the phone. I couldn’t give my personal information out to anyone. The only addresses we ever had were P.O. boxes, and they were always three towns over. My mother lived this way, too.

The great terror was that if Vera ever found us, she would kidnap me and hold me for ransom. This was not an unreasonable fear. I heard all kinds of horror stories about Vera having sex with her kids; and then there was the one who died. So I was really, really scared. I grew up under the specter of this killer psycho-mom who could leap out from anywhere at any moment, and I’d have no idea who she was because she’d be wearing a disguise.

Plus there was my sister. The one who lived with this evil woman.

When I was about ten, Vera caught up with us. She sent my father a letter making clear threats that he should pay her back child support, or that she’d come snatch me away. It also contained a picture of my sister, who was about fifteen. Word was that she’d become a wild runaway. I was desperate to talk to her, but forbidden to do so.

Fast-forward five years. My parents were newly divorced. My father was extremely strict, so, with him out of the house, I enjoyed all kinds of new freedoms. So did my mom. Occasionally she’d even spend the night at her new boyfriend’s place. This meant the end of all curfews and constraints.

I embarked on a series of lesbian romances immediately (I was never with a boy until college). I went to church on acid. In short, I had all the fun a fifteen-year-old should. The only disruptions occurred when I’d meet my dad for pizza.

Especially this one night.

Upon entering our usual pizza joint, I saw my dad sitting with a girl who looked to be about twenty. He said her name was Robin and that she was his new girlfriend. She did appear strange enough to date a fifty-five-year-old but, at the same time, she sort of looked a little bit like me. This struck me as some rather odd pseudo-incest. But I went with it.

After some start-and-stop conversation, my father came clean. Robin was my sister.

There she was - the girl who caused my family to be the “Whites” and the “Joneses” and all those other fake names for so long. But I had no resentment. I was very interested. She was so bubbly and upbeat. I was at my most shy and retiring, but Robin spoke with insane energy and I immediately looked up to her.

She revealed that she’d just arrived from Florida, where she’d gotten arrested and kicked out the window of a cop car. After that, they took Robin to jail and my dad posted her bond, so she’d be staying with him for the time being. I had no idea how my father was going to handle this.

See, I have some other half-siblings, too, besides Robin. My father helped his oldest son deal PCP. And now he was helping his criminal daughter hide from the police. And this was after years of not letting me stay out past 11PM.

None of this bothered me at the moment, though. I just wanted to live Robin’s life. The more she babbled, the more I wanted to imitate every aspect of her.

After the pizza meeting, Robin spent five whole days in my dad’s apartment. He finally shipped her off because she’d wake up routinely throughout the night, screaming uncontrollably. My father values, above all things, his privacy - to the point that he tapes up the peephole in his front door so that no one can look in. Since Robin’s wailing was disrupting his silent kingdom, she had to go.

Robin also broke into my dad’s private pharmacy, which didn’t help her cause much. My dad keeps more narcotics on hand - many of which have not been manufactured in years - than a dozen nurse stations at a dozen different hospitals. Robin managed to dip into his Valiums, and then she crashed through a glass coffee table.

That was, indeed, the final straw - but only for this particular appearance of Robin.

She’d be back.

Five years later, to be exact, Robin returned. With child. And more on fire than ever.

Robin’s son, this poor little creature named Abel who is now in the custody of the state, was severely developmentally disabled. He was once found wandering on the side of a highway at age three wearing just a (full) diaper. Abel could not even form words or carry out any of the tasks that one should be able to at his age - except that he was smart enough to get away from his mom.

My sister continued to both fascinate and frighten me. As Abel tore around my brother’s house shitting all over the floor (because Robin refused to buy diapers), she’d tell me how close we were in the cosmos, because she and I were both Virgos. She was utterly oblivious to the piles of feces her son was pumping out around the house.

Some time later, Robin attended a big family party with my father and me. Now my family is comprised of some of the toughest people you’ll ever meet - criminals in and out of jail, drug addicts, murderers...any horrible transgression you can think of, they’ve done it. And yet they were all terrified of Robin.

She made it so that you would just have to deal with her, though.

In the midst of a conversation with my father, Robin shot up from her chair and yelled, “REMEMBER THAT TIME YOU TOUCHED ME, YOU FUCKIN’ ASSHOLE, AND YOU CALLED ME A WHORE!?!”

And then she quietly sat down.

My father, who usually cannot control his anger, remained very calm. People milled about serving fried chicken as though nothing had happened. My dad even managed to choke down a piece, and maybe some mashed potatoes as well. Shortly thereafter, we politely left.

That was the last time Robin has spoken to my dad.

Robin continued to live in an Illinois suburb alongside my other half-brother and half-sister. She shacked up with a motel owner and had another kid. I picture the next most likely thing to happen to her is that she’ll be “saved” by fundamentalist Christians.

My most recent contact with Robin occurred when she called to ask for $6,000. She needed a brain tumor removed, she said. Six months later, Robin called back to state that she no longer needed the cash, because TV evangelist Benny Hinn has cured her ailment. Thank God for him.

This is my blood. It’s the same as everything else in my life.

And, Robin, should you be reading this, please get in touch with me. I’d like to know you better and learn more about your life.

Good Day. Mate.

Yesterday was a good day. Just like the Ice Cube song.

Maybe “good” isn’t quite the word. “Long” and “bizarre” may be more technically accurate. But I liked how everything went. It all made me happy.

The night before, I offered my Jetta to a homeless man to use as a motel. Since the starter is shot, I figured the car would be okay. Waking up and seeing that he’d come and gone and that my vehicle was in one piece felt like a blessing.

I’m weird with the homeless. For all the searing hatred I feel for humanity in general, I get all Mother Theresa when it comes to hobos. Sometimes I get burned, sometimes I don’t.

So as I was pondering this good fortune, I wandered past a table full of fat women at an outdoor cafe, stuffing their porky faces. I bummed a Marlboro Light (of course) from one of them, and as I was walking away, I heard her plump pal hiss in my direction (when she thought I was out of earshot): “Eat something!”

I wanted to turn around and tell them that the cigarette was my only meal for the day and then start crying. I wish I had.

It made me think about how fat people should not be allowed to eat, period, but they definitely should be banned from hogging it up in plain view of the public. Who wants to walk down a street and witness a parade of obese, middle-aged cunts gorging themselves? It’s like a car crash you don’t even want to watch.

Parading down Damen Avenue in the summer is like going to the zoo and watching the elephants eat each others shit.

After that, I realized I was broke. I called my friend Zed, who always provides me with a quick source of income. I burn him with cigarettes and he pays me.

Zed grew up in a bar in Yugoslavia, where drunk women routinely singed him with their smokes. Now he enjoys nothing so much as a lit ciggie to the foot while being degraded. In fact, he shells out $80 for a half-hour of this treatment.

This works out for me because it’s a great way to channel my aggressions and, even more so, I just plain enjoy it. The only problem is that it requires me to ingest about ten cigs in thirty minutes, and I tend to be a bit sick afterward. Still, eighty bucks is eighty bucks.

I’d almost perform this service for free, but I really needed the dough. It makes me laugh to see Zed wince in pain. He loves this reaction. I think that’s why he always asks me back. That, plus he has deemed me “pleasing to the eye.”

So even though this was my seventh session with Zed, this was the first time I made him cry. I think maybe he finally felt comfortable enough with me to really let loose. It was definitely some sort of breakthrough.

Still, the tears made things a bit awkward afterward. I felt like I was slogging through a sea of uncomfortable feelings on the way out. But seeing Zed sob made me realize that this was a profound experience for him. His pain was attached to real memories--and true horrors, at that. I was glad that he was dealing with this in such an inventive and mutually beneficial fashion. That made me happy.

With a few bucks now to tide me over till my next paycheck (if I could keep it away from my sticky-fingered roommate, who’s developed a repulsive taste for crack), I decided to catch a band. I found a club and came across a guy I regularly fornicate with named Beefo.

Beefo’s a bit crazy. It’s hard to put a finger on what exactly is wrong with him, but he claims to be nuts enough to make a living from Social Security payments. At first I was skeptical, but then I started experiencing his...obsessions.

The latest fixation for Beefo is online airline tickets. He looks for good deals on flights all the time. I mean, constantly. Since he has nothing to do all day, this is all he does.

And he almost never travels. Anywhere.

Beefo claims he has a roommate who is constantly in Costa Rica fucking hookers. I’ve never seen anyone else in Beefo’s apartment. We had to wait until exactly three A.M. because that’s when this roommate was next departing for Costa Rica.

So we waited until three, went to Beefo’s and had sex. Immediately upon popping off, Beefo shot out of the bed and glued his face to a nearby computer. I thought He can’t possibly be looking for airline tickets. Alas, I thought wrong.

“Look at this!” Beefo squealed. “Check this out! Three hundred dollars round trip to Prague! You should totally take advantage of this!”

It dawned on me that plane tickets brought infinitely more joy to Beefo than sex ever could. This, too, made me happy.

The sun was rising as I drove home. As I parked on my corner, I saw a white guy waving a piece of lumber and screaming. It was my roommate, Blockhead.

He was drunk out of his mind, greeting the denizens of my mostly minority neighborhood with wails about “spics” and “niggers”. He was on a self-righteous tear, yelling about the poor children who have no choice but to grow up to be drug dealers themselves.

It’s hard to argue with his point of view on this sad state of affairs, but one sloshed, skinny white asshole twirling a two-by-four and spewing racial slurs is not going to correct the many woes of the inner city and/or rescue its youth.

The funny thing is that Blockhead never seemed to be troubled by any of this strife before. That, and I swear he exhibits pedophilic tendencies.

I tried to shut Blockhead up, but he told me he’d been out doing this for the previous three nights. I told him to at least knock off the racial slurs, because the locals were highly likely to be offended by that kind of language, and many of them have guns, which his piece of wood probably wouldn’t be much good at fending off.

Desperate for quiet, I summoned my other roommate, Medici, to help. He was useless. Plus, his presence prompted Blockhead to threaten me with the two-by-four. I wished I had a taser. I would have used it and solved the problem.

Not wanting to call the police, I simply made it up to my room, turned on the air-conditioning, and waited for a gunshot.

The next day I arose to see Blockhead sitting in the living room, sans bullet holes. He must have gotten tired of fighting the one-man-fight he was fighting, or he sobered up, or both. He was fine. I was relieved. I just hope he stops. But he won’t. Or he’ll do something worse.

See, the insanity - it never stops. From the homeless freeloaders to the fat-asses to the fetishists, my world is a nonstop carousel of mania. And I think it’s great. It all makes me happy. I don’t know what I’d do without these people and their...peculiarities.

These nuts keep me going.

So even though I don’t live in South Central and I’m not Ice Cube, I was moved to declare: “Today was a good day.”

Shrinky Dink

Last week I was wandering around the streets late at night (as I often do), and I found myself lingering outside a club, wondering whether or not I wanted to go in. I knew what I’d be in for if I entered the place, and I had to decide if I wanted that or to just enjoy a quiet night.

As I pondered this, a rather down-and-out homeless man talked to me. He asked me to come back to the Christian mission where he was living. I declined.

He was almost fifty (a factor that usually doesn’t stop me), and he did have three teeth that were missing in the most charming way, but he was even too incoherent for me.

I was waiting for my friend Dax to negotiate something with a rail-thin girl who was strung out on meth and who was flying at about light speed compared to my usual standard state of lethargy. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it's people on meth or crack. Heroin can be annoying, but usually the people just pass out and don’t bother you, unless they OD. That can be a true irritant, but I’m getting off the subject.

At one point Dax threw in the towel and we headed for the train. That’s when he propositioned me, offering money if I’d have sex with him. This is not without precedent, as I once let him lick my vagina for $100 while I watched 3rd Rock from the Sun and tried to block it out. Dax is a male escort himself, but he cannot seem to get anything from any ladies, so he pays for his poon.

Again I declined, prompting Dax to whine that I’d broken his heart and a bunch of other bullshit. Poor him.

Two days later five big guys wailed on Dax and put him in critical condition. Now his jaw is broken and he has to have a metal plate in his face, which will make it very hard for him to get through airport security.

I feel bad for him.

So after I turned down Dax’s cash-for-cooch offer, I wandered back to the club. Some guy named Yonkel was hanging around outside. He was from Israel and told me that he recognized me from some shitty art show we were both at and proceeded to ask me all the boring getting-to-know-you questions.

Yonkel also told me that he was a doctor. A psychiatrist, to boot.

Immediately I was impressed. I thought about what kind of drugs he could prescribe me and how I always wanted to date an MD.

We were deciding whether or not to go into the club and he told me to relax and take a deep breath. That was gay, but after I did it, I decided I would not go into that place.

Yonkel asked if he could walk me to the train. If I knew what was going to take place in that thirty-minute hike, I probably would have declined, but he was a fucking twenty-seven-year-old MD, a man of my dreams, so I couldn’t resist.

And then it started...this onslaught of questions. I thought that shrinks wouldn't try to analyze people outside of their job, but here we were.

After mentioning that his family was wacky, Yonkel asked me about my upbringing, about abuse in my family, all of these really heavy questions. I’d expect to answer these queries if I were in his office, but on the street it was a bit awkward. And he seemed to be completely oblivious to the fact that he was crossing major boundaries by hammering away at this stuff. Still, Yonkel was undaunted.

I started to get offended and I wanted to get away from him. But then he started to draw these conclusions about me, which sound terrible when I write them, and it’s almost embarrassing, but it does explain a lot. The answers were so simple that I am almost mad I did not come to these conclusions myself.

All these people, all these articles that I’ve written, the constant parade of shitheads coming into and out of my life for a day or two is just my way of trying to find intimacy. It was a good answer, I thought.

So all of these mornings, brushing my teeth and watching those little white cum strings that form along the bottoms of my teeth and the pits in my gums and the inside of my cheeks that are impossible to spit out and all those times I had to reach into my herpes-scarred mouth to separate and lift the knots and yarn that collect and breed inside my flushed, ugly, pounded face, and all the stains that I come across later, and all the accusations of me having VDs and sleeping with weirdos--all that is me trying to find intimacy and failing.

It’s an interesting prospect.

I knew Yonkel worked at a local university as a psychiatrist, but I didn’t exactly remember his full name. I tried to look him up on the Internet, but I could not find him. I wanted him to be my psychiatrist.

Surprisingly, I ran into Yonkel the next day. I informed him of my search and I think I scared him a little bit. Unfortunately I don’t have the insurance to even afford a shrink.

One thing that I know and that always comforts me is the fact that I know that my mother is sleeping with a man who has genital herpes and she does not seem to care. Sometimes these simple realizations make all the difference.