Half A Brain And All Man

“When will I be in your column?” the unresponsive lump asks . . . as if it is good to show up in here.

I try to explain that if I write about you it is a terrible thing, and I probably despise you. I don't understand why all of them want to show up in here. To prove that they are "big men with big dicks who tore off a big piece." If that's what you want . . . well you got it. Congratulations.

All of what I write goes out to all of you. You sick, disgusting monsters. You who have been eaten up with insecurities and through obtaining and conquering have finally gotten what you want. What you really want is a piece of me. A piece of every person you see and intend to conquer.

I had an experience last week with a retarded man. And when I say retarded, I mean actually retarded in this case--as in, Down’s Syndrome, chromosomes-fucked-up retarded. His name is Butchie.

It is weird for me because I tend to identify much more with the retarded than with average individuals. Regular folks act like they are missing most of their brains, but they are not. Butchie actually does have a messed-up brain. He acts more like people would act if they weren't forever trying to initially fool you into believing that they aren't complete morons and pigs.

Rather than making small talk, Butchie just cuts right to the chase and I like that. He tells me, “I love you,” and then grabs at my tits and my ass. He did this upon meeting me and has never stopped. Cut right to it. Past all the small talk and “What do you do?” and all the bullshit that they think matters and straight to what they really want. To grope and grab like apes. The id acting out on the purest and deepest level. Like a little baby.

Like most men, Butchie is obsessed with screwing. He will, as Valerie Solanas put it, "swim through a river of snot, wade nostril-deep through a mile of vomit, if he thinks there'll be a friendly pussy awaiting him." But I find it so fascinating that this retard with half a brain is smarter than most of his male compatriots.

It is a shame though that so many women fall for the act that comes before the groping and grabbing and believe all the love talk. This retard only knows the words “I love you.” He does not say anything else.

The other night, at a friend’s house, I found Butchie awake in the middle of the night watching Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure on mute with a beer in his hand. His eyes were wide as he stared, motionless, in rapt attention at the screen.

I walked past him and immediately heard the words “I love you.” I politely smiled and said, "Thanks, Butchie," and proceeded to the bathroom.

He started to say it again--" I love you"--the second time more forceful and dedicated. I gave him a pat on the head and replied, "You are sweet. Thank you.”

It seemed different this time, though. We were alone now, not around all of his friends and my friends. Just me and Butchie.

The third time he said, “I love you,” he grabbed me. First my boobs, then my ass.

I said, "Okay. Thanks, Butchie. Go back and watch the movie.” I am used to this behavior, so it does not faze me too much, but I am starting to get uneasy because we are alone and pussy can turn the most docile man into a megalomaniac war monger. He is also three times my size.

Then Butchie started whispering over and over that he loved me and he rubbed his hands all over me, all over very fast. He pushed me up against the wall and pinned my wrists back, rendering me helpless.

I have the strength of a small bird. Self-defense, short of firearms, has always been a moot point for me. I did have a Taser once, but it broke because my friends and I were using it too much on ourselves when we were drunk.

So Butchie pushed and pushed and repeated the words over and over that I have heard from so many other people that did have meaning at some time, but at this time every time they were repeated they became infinitely more dreadful, and everything seemed to be closing in.

“Stop, Butchie!” I seethed. “Stop it!” I tried to reason with him, but he is missing half his brain, and at that moment all he had was a boner that needed to be gotten rid of. Nothing else mattered.

This mongoloid, I could see, was projecting his whole miserable existence--the years of being mocked, his life of guilt, shame, passivity, his inability to relate to humanity--directly onto me. And he was setting out to prove that he is a man. A big man with a big dick tearing off a big piece. He needed to prove it all.

Butchie pushed me on the ground. This had happened to me before. All of this had. I remembered it. It all rushed back to me. It seemed that his entire speech had been reduced to these three horrible words that a girl never forgets.

“I love you.”

That phrase is so loaded, but with Butchie on top of me, it simply became horrible and terrifying and savage and all I wanted was for this moment to end.

As I was prone on the ground, I just closed my eyes. Everything had changed, again. And then the world stopped for a moment. Everything got quiet. The monster got up. And it was over.

Did Butchie want to show me affection?

Was this his way of doing it?

Was this his way of getting back at the world after years of torment?

Was this his attempt to make love?

Is this what he thought love was?

Was it enough for him?

Will it ever be enough?

Had it happened before?

Will it happen again?

Who should I tell?

Did it really happen?

Did it hurt?

Will it stop hurting?

Does he really love me?

Is he really retarded?

Why did it happen?

Should I have yelled?

Was he drunk?

Was I drunk?

Did I imagine it?

Did I like it?

Did it happen before with him?

Did it happen before with someone else?

Will it happen again? Did he like it?

Did he feel vindicated? Did he feel loved?

Am I telling the truth?

Did he get hard?

Did he ejaculate?

Did I get turned on?

Was it consensual?

Did I touch him back?

What happened?

How long did it last?

Should I tell anyone?

Is there any physical evidence of it like bruises or something?

Am I bleeding?

Is there mental evidence?

How many times has this happened?

How many times will it happen?

Will it ever stop?

Cock! A Roach!

All I can see is roaches. Everywhere. In my house. On my keyboard. When i press a key, they all scatter in different directions. They’re different sizes. Different colors. On my TV. In my toothbrush. In my bed. Crawling on my walls. Creeping all over me when I’m sleeping. In the bar. At work. In my cereal.

All I see is gummy chaw. Bite marks. And bruises. All over my arms, legs, and holes. My knees look like I have been sucking dick in the alley for five dollars a pop. It’s terrible. I don't know where they come from, but they are there.

The bruises. The roaches. Everywhere.

My shit-stained, sweaty asshole is rife with remnants of the cottage cheese cum from two hours ago. Luckily it is all from one man. Yes, I am now on the monogamy train.

The roaches are still all I see. I still feel the disgust. But I know that 15,000 dicks are no longer in me. Only one. He is here. There is no getting rid of him now. I have now convinced myself I like it. I think...but I don't.

I am so afraid I have become one of them. Them. The ones who glom onto any sad white trash Neanderthal who will drop them a sad drop of pathetic attention. I feel I am using him. I want to stop fucking random people. I hate using people. But I know he is using me as well.

To him, I am a body. Someone to fuck. Someone who looks good who he can show off to his friends. A pretty face. And maybe nothing else, considering he can't understand me any more than he could a normal houseplant. And how could he?

I don't let him in. I can't. I get him. I think, and know exactly what he wants. You get to know a lot about a man when his dick is in your ass. I don't think I can handle it much longer.

He brings out a beast in me that is rarely seen. In my personality. A manic monster. A beast that comes from this beautiful, disgusting place. I need to quell it, though, because I believe this beast will kill me.

The only way I know and am used to dealing with all of this is with drugs. Pop a pill. Stick a needle in my arm. Crack a bottle. Drinking, using. It's all the same. I don't know if I can deal with this one.

Even licensed doctors agree with me. They say “Lil P, I'll prescribe you this pill, but you will sleep a lot.”

“Well, Doc,” I say, “if I take the dosage I am supposed to take I sleep for forty hours.” I tried once.

Maybe he knows exactly what he is doing. Maybe that is my best state. Comatose. Asleep. Dead. Whatever. The story of "Sleeping Beauty", "Snow White", many fairy tales describe dead bitches who are saved by necrophiliac princes who come and basically "kiss"--or in modern terms "fuck"--their dead bodies and they suddenly wake up. I equate myself with these comatose, drugged-out whores.

This is me. I am sick. I need to be rescued. I am afraid of leaving this relationship. What will I become? Will I go back to fucking every guy in a bar? Or will I find another "relationship" because I am too scared of fucking everyone?

There is a medium somewhere, but I do not think I can find it. It is sad, but it is me. I miss when there was one. At a time there was. I was in relationships for six years, then fucking every random person for two. Now starting relationships again.

Never will I be one of those fucks that runs from relationship to relationship. I've always abhorred them. Now more than ever. Why do I need that? I need myself. But Myself is not doing much for Myself right now.

So fuck relationships. Fuck all this bullshit. It needs to stop. It is depressing. I will never know what is best. Everything is so different than what I have known.

Look. Roaches.