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.

Lil P Goes Straight?

For the past two years now that I have been gallivanting about Chicago, fucking about every crazy, stupid turd that bothers to turn his fat, gay head my way and drool at least five unintelligible sentences in a row. But I'm trying to change this. I really am.

It began like a fun game. I have never been able to be monogamous, but I had only had two boyfriends in my life up until I was 23. That’s when I began to think, Holy shit . . . I'm 23 and I've been in this stupid drug-addled relationship for 4 years now, and, like, I've only had sex with my boyfriends . . . I'll probably get married soon and have hardly had sex with anyone.

This thinking brought about my frantic cheating on my boyfriend a bunch of times and then our eventual breakup.

Then, practically before I even had a chance to end that relationship, another asshole pisshead swept me up. And then he immediately dropped me and flushed me down the toilet like diseased feces.

I was upset for a little while. But I was relieved, too, because I no longer felt doomed to a life of marriage. Plus I would have missed out on tasting the greatness of dragging different decaying degenerates home from bars and having them stick their bloated, red dicks all around my pisshole and giving me VDs.

Seriously, I was happy. I no longer had to hold back when I saw someone--anyone--who interested me. I was ready to conquer the world. Thus brought on the next two years.

Through my previous mental monkey of a boyfriend, I was introduced to all sorts of hip people and bars and artists and bands and etc. etc. This gave me a good “in” as far as knowing where to go to slop around and get fucked by some wretched waste-case of a stranger once or twice a week.

I was an eager beaver and curious as a cat to get out there and spread my legs for endless amounts of wretched scumbags. It was not love I was looking for at all. Love was the furthest thing from my mind. Granted I was still young, but I never had really gone on a date with anyone.

(As a side note, I'd like to point out that I have never really lived like a "normal” person. Even though I had boyfriends, we did not live in clean, one-bedroom apartments together like regular people do. Even when I was committed to some guy, we cohabited as a couple in various hellacious rat-dumps alongside any number of losers.)

It did not take me long to plunge into the world of sleazy bars, inane conversation, drunken sex, and not knowing where I am or who is next to me upon waking up. My already drug-fueled, alcoholic lifestyle helped me a lot with this transition. It was also great for my not being apprehensive to jump into a 50-year-old creep's car for a "ride home" when I was about 10 feet from my own house.

I got the moves down fast. I could see some trash bag of a guy at a bar, spot him and pick him out, decide that that was the stranger that I wanted. I’d sidle up and sit by him, and after very little practice it would take me about two minutes to allow him a sad degree of attention and vice versa and see if he would give himself over to his erection and come home with me, or bring me home with him.

If these gargoyles were coming to my place, I had to make sure that either they were really drunk or really wanted it, because I knew I lived in a complete shithole with three men, all of whom I had fucked and two of whom were very jealous and would do things like steal from them or fuck up their stuff.

At first, I loved this. It was exciting. I loved fucking strangers. It seemed to be the missing puzzle piece to my life. I never wanted a relationship. Then, as with everything else in my life, I had to go overboard and make it a complete obsession. For a while, I would aim for some decent-looking, not completely disgusting pig to screw. In time, any bloated, shit-chewing fungus was welcome in my bed.

It just had to be a stranger. Breathing wasn’t even required. Sure, there were some winners in there (heh-heh) but they never called back. Of course the only ones that wanted more were the moldy cocksuckers with constant erections with whom I had to make myself completely numb to get near.

After two years of this, I got tired. I had long ago realized that what had started out as something fun had turned into another addiction of mine. I now wanted back in. I wanted a relationship. I was sick of everything. I craved everything I hated. I wanted stability. I just wanted someone to call back when they said they would. And I wanted to see them more than once.

And then it happened. And I was glad about it, even though the guy was a total douche. He looked like a wastrel out of the movie Gummo and I really was attracted to that, and he inflated my ego to no end and I thought that was nice, but it quickly ended for reasons I still don't exactly understand. But I now knew I could go back and actually get into a relationship if I wanted to. I wasn't ruined permanently (besides the VDs) and I could exit this if I wanted to. And I did.

At least to the point that I don't search out one-night stands or strangers to fuck anymore. Sometimes they find me, and rarely do I give into temptation.

What scared me now was that I wanted this relationship thing back so bad and I had a lot of things going against me. First of all I lived in a sewer. And I had three roommates there. One of them was my ex-boyfriend of four years who continues to this day to steal from everyone including me. Another claimed to be "in love" and got crushed every time I brought someone home. The third was just there, but he’s another intimidating freakshow in his own right.

I am a pretty laid-back girl, but a lot shit comes along with me. In terms of sexual partners, I’ve racked up about 80 disgusting monstrosities. Plus the fact that I have never been monogamous (and by that I mean that I have cheated on every boyfriend I ever had). And I make naked movies, I have VDs, I'm on methadone, and I write this column. I made a list once and it's far too depressing to go through, but it's me.

All at once, I hate and love myself for this shit, but the question is: Can I find someone that will either appreciate it, or maybe would be able to just let it pass? That is a hard one for sure.

I seem to have maybe found someone recently. I know that I can get someone a lot like myself, but that would likely make them wife-beaters or complete trash, and I'm sick of rodents. Not this new guy.

I haven't gone into every detail of the aforementioned list with this fellow, but most of it is out in the open, and he does tell me to take a shower more than anyone I know. And he’s nice and Jewish.

I don't know how long it will last. It has lasted longer than I ever thought it could, and that's been a month. That means a full month of me sleeping with only one person. I think this can work. Perhaps.

Of course there will be updates, but things are looking bright. I feel like I'm standing on this balance beam with people throwing tomatoes at me and it's so easy to just fall off but I’ve got to keep staying on it. I don't know what I think of that analogy, but I can't think of a better one.

There are so many questions. Who knows if I'll be able to remain monogamous? Who knows if this will even pan out? What if he's with a different girl first? I know that something is happening with me because I had a rather peculiar telephone conversation with this Hebraic fellow last night and actually thought about it more than I should have. To preface it, I have been sick with bronchitis for about two weeks, thus making him sick.

Rabbi: I will be hanging out with Bonnie tonight, and I don't want to get her sick.
Me: I have a cold and no one I know is sick but you. I didn't give it to my roommates or friends or anything.
Rabbi: Yeah, but then again your roommates have not had their mouths all over you.

Should I conclude then that he will have his mouth all over this girl? I laugh because I can't remember the last time I even cared about any of this stuff. And I know that in the future sometime I'll damn this all to hell and want to go back to slumming around bars and looking for degenerates with erections, but right now I think this is good. And nothing will tell but time.

The Year in Fuck

To be brutally, completely honest, I find some satisfaction in the fact that you were “violated” whilst feeling untouchable. See, we don't have it both ways. We can be beaten by others and then it's just violence. If we're attacked by others, it is still violence. Just violence.

If we are raped by these plugged up beasts it is just sex, and illegal sex at that, and we are as culpable as the rapist in the act. Doesn't matter how we dress. So fuck off, bitch, and suck it up and survive or die. Welcome to the real world. You have no rights. And neither do I. It is an illusion.

A list:

1. If you sleep in the same area (bed, pile of trash, etc) with a male human, the male human will be very inclined to have sex with you (regardless of biological sex). Why is this surprising? And I have slept next to very beautiful women, many of whom would have been former girlfriends instead of frustrations had I had the nerve to “rape” them.

2. Rules are nearly meaningless. That the rules exist in the first place is interesting and that any kind of litigation exists that one may invoke is irrelevant. In any given situation, there ARE NO RULES. This applies to all human life and activity, sexual or otherwise.

3. Human women, for as long as it matters (think of it as a major historic era, e.g. the Cambrian Age) will be the ones that human men will want to have sex with. If we're gay or bi, we might vacation with the same sex, but it will be vaginas that we are interested in for the most part.

3.5 Women who think that they are doing womankind a favor by being in “burlesque" shows or doing things that are barely crossing the line of total whoredom are the worst of all. Take your burlesque and shove it up your often plump asses. I have been hurt by these women. At least have some courage or don't walk the line in the name of "liberated women" ever. Please. You make me and my neighborhood vomit. I use burlesque because it is an easy target. There are many more women like this. I could list them. I won’t. I know you know who these horrible saps are.

4. I loathe these pristine, good, unassailable, beautiful, delicate, well-coifed, powdered, primped, American-Appareled, perfect, good, lovely boy slugs that I see every night. Their opinions are absolutely meaningless to me, a confirmed nothing. I would rather scrape away at my genitals with a blunt object than listen to their blather for one more minute. It is actually excruciating.

5. I have sold my body. OOOOH bad. So sorry. Hmm . . . it seems that vaginas are more bearable when bought and sold. Why is that? A question for the ages.

6. Yes, I hate men. If you buy Plath's bullshit then I don't need to elaborate. But then you'd be just another clone. I want men to know that when I hate them I hate them personally. It is a vicious, visceral hate. I hate you. Not “mankind” or some abstraction. I hate you. You. You fucking disgusting troll.

7. About “Daddy”: Well, it was from my (rabidly Christian) father that I learned the details of male-to-male rape, as well as male-to-female rape, and that if I went anywhere I would eventually have a penis forced into my mouth. Oh, I was spared no detail! Men are evil! I still agree, despite the evidence! And, according to him, I am derived from a marriage of cousins. Does it matter if it is untrue? Not if you and your family are made up of nuns and drug addicts apparently.

8. Men are stupid wastes. Almost every man I have ever met, a few exceptions aside, are interested in what I call “bullshit”. Gabriel Garcia Marquez = Bullshit. McSweeny's = Bullshit. Nick Drake = Bullshit. I could go on and on. The worst thing is, when you call them out they can't deal with it. If I like bullshit, I admit it.

13. Get a venereal disease, for Christ's sake. I have about 20. At least then you will make a difference. You will be a walking weapon. Right now, you're an unarmed set of genitalia. With an STD you might at least affect the world.

14. Fuck off.

15. How many numbers are there?

15.5 Oh yes . . . it never ends does it?

16. I hate myself, but I love humanity. Weird huh?

17. Don't you see how ineffectual it all is? What is the point of your (or my) blathering? There is none. All is statistics to your kind. I laugh maniacally whilst your towers crumble. I laugh because there is nothing else left to do. All imaginable atrocities have been committed; all acts of good have been suggested. There is no answer. Die, I love you, die.

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.