Life of a Lady

Life of a Lady: An Autobiography of Sorts. By Lady Molasses

A work in progress; started February 2010.

PART I

Chapter 1. In the Closet

“Let me out, please!” I shouted from inside the closet.

“No!” my mother shouted from the other side. “Not tonight. Here's dinner.” A plate of uncooked spaghetti and tomato slices slid underneath the door.

“But, I wanna fuck!” I yelled. I crunched on the spaghetti noodles and squeezed the tomato slices over them to simulate real spaghetti sauce. It was almost like the real thing.

"Watch your mouth, young Lady!" she screamed. "You know you're not supposed to be doing those things. Sex is for adults."  

"I can do whatever I want!" I shouted, my mouth full of dry noodles and tomato juices. "I live in a closet."

"This may be so, but when you're out of that closet you're still in this house, and you must do what we say."

My parents weren't very understanding of my youthful sexual appetite. In fact, they weren’t very understanding of any part of who I was. I was a hormone driven teenager sitting in a dark closet, biding my time until a chance at freedom. A part of me considered the possibility that I was being kept in the closet for a good reason. Another part of me, the bigger, less sensible, more active part of my brain, told me this was in no way a consequence of my actions.

By age seven I had become something of a sexual deviant. I'd started my sexual escapades with dolls I had from early childhood, and then had a total meltdown when I was eight which doctors said was related to my accelerated sexual development. My breasts were 36 DD by this age, and needless to say, the boys at school thought of me differently than the other girls. But it wasn't the boys at my school I was doing it with. “It” was sex. The older boys in high school were sending me love letters. I liked their cigarettes, but couldn't have cared less about their silly notes and rhyming words. Love wasn't for me. I was a pleasure machine with no need for love. 

In exchange for cigarettes, I'd perform certain favors for the older fellows. I’d do “it” with them, among other things considered inappropriate for a child to do to another child. Before I was eight, I had contracted a couple diseases by way of sex. Luckily for me they were of the curable variety and didn't stick around too long. You'd think a couple encounters with flesh-ruining bacteria and pus-oozing blisters would change a girl. Maybe you'd expect her to learn a thing or two. They didn't teach me anything, except that I wanted more of the experiences that caused them in the first place. And more of it I got. My meltdown at 8, which mostly consisted of me destroying the home when my parents wouldn’t allow me to flaunt my breasts to the neighbors because of something they called “taboo” and “laws”, was something my mom and dad took seriously.

My parents took me to sexual counseling, which, at the time, was not offered for eight year olds. My case was considered to be a unique one, so more than one counselor was interested in taking it on.

The first counselor I went to was named Platty Weber. He was a nice man. He was so nice that I had sex with him during our second session. Then again during our third session. And fourth. My parents found out only because he videotaped his sessions and rented them out to some of his friends, family, other patients, and anyone who was referred to him through a valued customer. One person who rented a session tape was a friend of my dad's and, after telling my dad this he found the tape in an incorrectly marked video cassette case in a Christian bookstore, showed my dad the video. In fact, the police found out about these incidents as well. Mr. Weber, or "Fatty Daddy Platty" as he had me call him in the throes of our rough lovemaking, was arrested and sent to jail for a long time. I never got to say goodbye.

My second sexual counselor was a shriveled up old woman by the name of Cremdgin Milkwood. Cremdgin was repulsive, and smelled of dead mythological beasts, but it only took about four sessions before I became attracted to her and found myself moist in her presence. For my entire life I’ve had the remarkable talent for finding even the most disgusting people attractive, seeing beauty where others say there is only filth, and rotten, stinking, horribleness. 

 At our first session, after a long talk with my parents and a short introduction, Ms. Milkwood began asking me questions. "Lady, tell me how long you've been sexually active."

I didn't know how to answer her, because counting wasn't my game. I could do it, sure, but I wasn't very good at it. I didn't care for it. Still don't. "A week, I think," I replied. It could have been a month, though.

"OK. Well, your parents say you've been exhibiting strange sexual behavior for quite some time. For at least a couple years."

I shrugged. 

"Lady, I’m going to ask you something very personal, and it might be a sensitive subject. But you can be honest with me. This is a safe place for us to talk about the kinds of things you wouldn’t normally talk about. It's a grown up topic but I think you're mature enough to talk about it with me. What you and I talk about is between the two of us, and no one else." 

"OK."

"Lady, have either of your parents done anything to you that made you feel uncomfortable? Have they done to you any of the things that you've done to the boys you've been active with? Or have they forced you to do things like this? Have they touched your private parts?"

"What are private parts?" I asked.

"Your vagina, your butt... these are private parts," she said. "Sometimes the mouth. Your breasts are private parts, too." She looked at my large breasts like they were unwelcome in her office.

"No," I said, disappointed. "The only people who touch my private parts are the boys I meet in the neighborhood, down by the lake or on the playground. No one else touches my private parts when I want them to. I have to trick them. Then they'll touch me."

The counselor looked puzzled, and she asked me to clarify. "What do you mean?"

"I use my dolls in my room when I'm at home. They'll touch me when I want them to, like this.” I pushed my crotch forward and poked at it with one hand, licked the fingers on the other hand, and rubbed my chest in circles, and squeezed my breasts. “Same with most of the older boys. But some boys don't like me, so I have to get them to touch me however I can." When I started detailing my tricks and ways of sexual manipulation to the counselor, she told me to stop and continued asking me questions. I did what she said, and hated every minute of it. 

I saw Ms. Milkwood every week.  She probably taught me many things about myself, though I barely paid attention because I was sitting in that room fantasizing about taking off her sweater and burying my face between her sagging, eighty-four year old breasts. If anyone ever tells you fantasizing never pays off, don't listen to them. As if she was able to read my mind, one day Ms. Milkwood came to our counseling session without wearing a sweater. Granted, she was still wearing a shirt. The shirt, however, outlined her old and frail body. As an eight year old I was not supposed to find this arousing, but I did. I removed my clothes and jumped on top of her, slobbering the saliva of lust all over her clothes. She punched me, pulled my hair, scratched my neck, each of which was more and more sexually satisfying to me, until she finally kicked me off, screaming and yelling for help. My parents ran in and acted like they were surprised to see me completely naked and sweaty, fighting an old woman. 

Sexual counseling ended at about that point and my parents kept me at home, grounded indefinitely. I was home schooled for years, not allowed to interact with other children – especially not the older boys. While going through my parents’ belongings one night, looking for things to steal and sell to the neighbors, I found my dad’s old Polaroid camera. As any kid would do, I set the camera up and took pictures of myself. Naked. I did every pose I could dream of, and made sure the shots were perfect. I didn’t stop until the film was used up. I kept the photos hidden in my room, away from the jealous eyes of my parents. When I got bored I’d go back to that camera and take more pictures. It was the most satisfying thing I knew at such a young age.

By the age of ten I was showing a lot of improvement. I was making great grades in home school, which was something of an accomplishment. I'd shown no signs of sexual perversion or disregard for common decency in quite some time. At least, I hadn't shown these explicitly in any outward and public fashion. Had you been able to see my bedroom back then you'd probably have been impressed by the number of cardboard cut-outs I'd made of fictional characters with which I'd often engage in disgusting and lewd acts, most of which I later in life found out were totally illegal for incomprehensible reasons. I made new cut-outs each week, because that’s about how long they’d last before falling apart from the effects of body fluids, sharp objects, blending appliances, kitchen and bathroom chemicals, and human waste.

By age eleven I was performing at almost the same academic level as other eleven year olds.  My parents told me if I'd had friends, I'd have almost been as smart as them. I was so proud of myself. 

Within a week of turning thirteen my parents let me back into public school. Within two weeks of turning thirteen I was pregnant with my first child. We never found out who the father was, but I knew it was one of eight possible suspects. I named my son Strygler Mascara Molasses. He was taken away from me and put up for adoption after the first time I held him in my arms. No one let me say goodbye. But I got over it pretty fast, because thirteen year olds have more important things to worry about than their own fucking children.

As a teenager, I started to grow into my monstrous breasts. They began not looking as freakish on me as they always had, and I was thankful for that. I started attracting more boys than just the perverts and freaks and mustached gentlemen in aviator sunglasses. I was attracting football players and even chubby Italian kids who bowled on Sundays. Any boy I wanted was mine.

When you're in public school, it's a great opportunity to start a business. My business was selling glass boxes filled with my own shit. It was a pretty simple business plan. I'd bought a lot of glass boxes with my allowance of one quarter a week. Glass boxes are pretty cheap when you buy them all at once, and that's exactly what I did. The guy who sold me the boxes said he'd only give me the good deal on boxes if I let him see my box. I had no idea what he meant, but I found out real fast. A box is a vagina, if you’re wondering.

I'd shit into my glass boxes at least twice a day. Stopped using toilets pretty much altogether. I’d had a hunch there was no need for using toilets if I could capitalize off my own waste. I hadn't actually known if it was possible, I was just hoping. Turns out I was right. Glass Boxes Full of Human Shit were a huge hit at my school, and everyone wanted one. I sold one hundred twenty four boxes in the first week. You might be wondering how I filled that many glass boxes with my own shit. The secret, which I feel safe sharing now that my business is no more, was that when I had a lot of orders to fill (figuratively and literally), I'd ask my mom to take me out for Mexican food, and afterwards I’d shit into one large container and then just scoop a little out for each box, seal it up, and it'd be ready to sell. I started pissing in the boxes too, because it was just easier that way. I never bothered to change the name to Glass Boxes Full of Human Shit and Piss or Glass Boxes Full of Human Waste, because I didn't want to confuse my customer base. And quite a customer base I had. 

As soon as the principal of my school got a whiff of what I was doing, he brought down the hammer. You don't have to be a Randolph Weisenhauser to know I tried all the sexual tricks in the book on this guy to make him reconsider or turn a blind eye to my brown-eye shenanigans, but he didn't budge. The parents of the students who were buying my shitboxes had apparently complained to the teachers until the top dog of the school heard about it. My own parents were called about it, and I was once again punished severely. 

I was kind of popular in school, at least with the boys. The girls were jealous of my charm and popularity so they would always walk past me without smiling. I'd sometimes follow them into the bathrooms and break into the stalls when they were sitting on the toilet and fart all over their faces because I knew they couldn't do anything about it. One whore named Jessica kicked me in the teeth one day because I spit on her new Trapper Keeper. What did I do? I told the teacher. What did the teacher say?

"Young Lady, don't be tattlin'."

So I waited. The end of the day came. Jessica and I rode the same bus. Jessica usually got off at the stop right after mine, so I waited. When she was getting off I got off with her. She acted like she didn't notice me. I walked behind her. I guess now is as good a time as any to mention it, but I was carrying a heroin needle with me, which my friend Tony was letting me borrow. It was full of heroin, of course. When she was almost home I jumped on her and injected her full of heroin. Then I took my pants off and punched myself in the vagina and bashed a rock into my skull. I fell down on her front lawn while she ran to the door. I screamed as loud as I could until her parents ran outside to find their daughter high on heroin and me lying in their grass with a bloody skull and an obviously badly punched vagina. When my parents came to pick me up, they decided to press charges against Jessica. Being a minor, she just went to juvenile detention for a few weeks and then was put on house arrest for a year. But I think I got even with her.
          

So what was I doing in a closet, yelling at my parents? My parents had locked me in the closet after my third child, which I had when I was 14. They only let me out to eat and sometimes to go to the bathroom. My education stopped completely. No public school, no home school, just nothing. My dad would read stories to me through the door at first, but I hated stories and told him to stop so I could touch myself without the men in my fantasies taking on his voice. At one point my parents said I could come out and live in the rest of the house, but I chose to still spend time the closet when I needed privacy. I could do whatever I wanted to in that closet. When my parents weren't home or were sleeping, I would sneak out and meet boys in the neighborhood and take them to my closet, hoping they'd put their fish sticks inside my octopus. Usually it worked. But my freedom to leave the closet didn't last long.

I was known around the neighborhood as quite the squirter, something which most girls pretended they weren't impressed by. All the boys found it irresistible. When I sat in the closet I would make paintings with my own squirted fluids, usually selling them at my parents' garage sales when they weren't paying attention. My most prized painting was one I called "Baby Whale". It didn't look like a whale, but the old man I sold it to said it reminded him of his days as a sailor, when he'd see the whales coming above the water and squirting out of their blowholes. I liked that image and so I stuck that name on the picture right before he handed me $9.50 for it. 

When my parents caught me selling my art, and giving blowers and handers to men who'd come to buy it, they put me back in the closet again, for good.
          

"Mom!" I shouted, from inside the closet, after finishing my spaghetti. I was getting tired, and was getting ready to go to bed. Before sleeping, I liked to talk to my parents and tell them goodnight.

"Yes, dear?" she replied. 

"Do you ever dream of the future?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the future."

"I don't get it. Sure, honey. Sometimes I think about tomorrow and the day after that. Your father and I sometimes think of what we'll be doing in a couple days, just the two of us."

"I mean, you know... the future. Like the year 2000, and telepathic news reporters. A future where we're... you know... free. Do you respect me as your daughter?"

"Your father and I don't like to think of you as our daughter anymore, but as a foreign exchange student we've kept locked in a closet for a few years."

"Do you think in the future, this foreign exchange student will ever get out of the closet for good and be able to see the world?" I asked.

"I truly doubt it, young Lady."

I responded with a Chester Flavored fart which shook the walls of our home, and also the souls of my parents. I knew one day I'd be out of there.

Chapter 2. A Pubestorm Toward Los Angeles

As far as Chester flavored farts go, mine was distinct and textured like a level 6 thunderstorm. Things like that didn't bother my parents, though. They left me sitting in the closet to enjoy the fruits of my anus.

Having gone through puberty and grown a complex jungle of pubic hair in and around my vaginal and anal regions, I was feeling more like a woman every day. The brief exposure I'd had to pornography by my uncle Flambert supported my theory that a woman was defined by the quantity of hair contained in her bush. Uncle Flambert used to come to our house when I was 10 and 11, and when my parents were asleep he'd watch porn in our living room. One night I walked in to ask him what it was.

"Oh come on up here, little Lady," he said to me.

I hopped up on the couch and he explained every scene to me as if it were a necessary component of my education. He gave little attention to the plots which he said were unimportant and simply a distraction from the real action. As I was already a highly experienced sexual monster by this point the porno videos didn't teach me a great deal, except that all the women in them had bushes which could only be tamed by a man whose teeth were as sharp as his sexual prowess.

"Ain't nothin' more appetizin' in the world than a full figured woman with a chest full of milk and a pussy made of silk," Flambert told me.

"Do these women really have silk in their clam chowder?" I asked. I was confused by his lingo.

"Lady, there's some thangs you gonna find out when you get older, and there some thangs you gonna find out right now," he replied. "One them thangs is that any woman worth the air she breathes is gonna have a finely crafted whisker biscuit between her legs, and she ain't gonna shave that pussy for no one."

"Uncle Flam," I said, "what if a lady doesn't have any hair on her body? Will boys still like her?"

"Lady, boys are boys. Men, on the other hand, don't like that none. We want a woman with hair from the bottom of her belly button all the way 'round to the cheeks surroundin' her turd-cutter. Now look here." He pointed to the television, with a hair-covered woman being gangbanged by three large men who seemed to know what they were doing.

The woman in the video didn’t just have a mound of hair between her legs, but her arms were covered in fur as well. It was a dense fur that sprouted from her forearms. One of the men in the video, after he removed his penis from her anal hair pit, brought his pube-enshrouded penis to her arm, and they began tying his pubic hair to her arm hair. I watched with saliva building under my tongue as the man’s penis became a fixture on the woman’s hairy arm. The name of the movie, Flambert told me, was “Arm and Hammer”, and it made sense to me. The rest of the video was filmed with the man’s junk tied to the woman’s arm while the team continued sexual athletics.

I watched in jealousy, because none of the boys I'd been with had ever known what they were doing quite like these fellas. I watched with a hunger in my loins and my heart that surpassed all the shit I knew at the time. I hadn’t felt anything like this before. These women were heroes, they were free, they were living and feeling and swallowing everything I wanted to live and feel and swallow. I wanted to be like them. There, on the TV in my parents’ living room, were the only beings who had ever spoken to me on a level I could understand. A sexual level that burned deep. The hair between their legs proved to me they were the real deal, the things I wanted to be.  I didn't know it at the time, but I just had to wait a little while longer for puberty to hit in and bless me with a hairy rainforest. This blessing came and turned me into the woman I knew I was destined to be.

This is why I had two more babies after Strygler. This time they were fathered by men, instead of boys. The babies died before they could be named, but the important thing is their  fathers were adults. Before I was locked up in my parents' closet I was having the time of my life with older men, ranging from 20 to 90. At least three senior citizens died while probing me with their sausage links, and I knew this meant I was a hot piece of ass.

Being locked in the closet with my fumes of a fart and my anger boiling out of the pores of my skin, I realized I had to make a run for it. I was going to run away from home. The darkness of the closet was putting darkness in my heart. It was a real sinister kind of darkness that was so dark it made me thirsty for light, and the sun. My own smells were driving me to a real dark place, someplace darker than the closet. You know what I mean? Just a real deep darkness so black I could smell it. I had never been out of the little crap-village of a town we lived in, and for a few years TV told me there were other places to see. The next time my parents opened the door I would run as fast as I could and escape to the outside. But I knew the only way to do this was to be as aerodynamic as possible. This meant being naked. Sitting in the closet for long hours pondering over my plan, I realized my pubic armory would severely retard the speed of my escape. I knew what I had to do.

The next morning my dad came to open the closet to let me out for breakfast. As soon as he opened the door he was hit in the face by eight pounds of pubic hair, which I had just shaved off of my body. He gagged as some of it flew into his mouth and got caught in his throat, and other pieces of it were inhaled into his nostrils and other hairs got stuck in his eyes. In a brutally naked flash, I ran from the closet, through the hallway to the front door. I looked back at my father as I opened the door, and saw him still struggling with the pubestorm in which he had found himself unwittingly stuck. My entire pubic region was still red and covered in razor burn from my recent shaving, and I ran out the front door. I knew I'd never return.

I didn't make it far before the cops tried to arrest me for public nudity. That arrest didn't last long, though. A couple blowjobs later I was out on the street again, but with a set of clothes to wear until I could find a place to settle. Even though I had clothes, I felt completely naked. Without my pubic hair I didn't feel like a woman. Without the closet I felt homeless. I suppose I was homeless, and I suppose it was better than living in a closet. I went to plenty of novelty shops in the city, but none of them had pubic wigs. I walked into an adult bookstore and was promptly kicked out because I didn't have an ID.

I was 16 years old and living on the streets. I knew on Saturdays they had Farmers Markets downtown. I hung around the city for the next couple nights giving handjobs to homeless men in the alleys for a few sips of whiskey and a box to sleep in. The boxes I slept in were cruel reminders of the lifestyle I'd lived when I was selling my own shit in glass boxes. Those days of luxury were over and I knew it. But sometimes the price of freedom is high. The homeless men always smelled like cigarettes and whiskey, so kissing them and rubbing my tongue over their rotten teeth was never pleasant, but it got me what I wanted each and every time.

When Saturday hit I made my way to the Farmers Market and spoke to the first farmer I saw. I asked him if I could get a job on his farm, because I loved horses. I didn't really love horses, but you gotta lie to get good jobs. I was in survival mode, and the street smarts I'd developed in the closet began to kick in. The farmer was impressed with my lie, and said he'd love to have me work at his farm. He even let me stay in a guest house. He had the friendliest family in the world and I got to know all of them very well. His wife was named Hannaloue and he had two daughters, a 17 year old named Barbalay and a 13 year old named Sagepuss. I worked at the farm for three months and became very close to young Sagepuss and beautiful Barbalay. Even though they had their own bedrooms they'd usually come visit me in the guest house and sleep in there with me.

At first, Barbalay and Sagepuss both slept on the floor. This was when I'd first started living on the farm and they first met me, and liked me enough to treat me like a sister, but not enough to get any closer. But as time went on, and I could feel my pubes growing back in, I was feeling like a woman again. One night while we were all lying in my room I asked Barbalay if she'd ever kissed a boy before. She said she'd kissed plenty of boys. I asked Sagepuss the same question and she said she'd never kissed anyone except her ugly cousin who she said was fat and smelled of butterscotch in the gums. We all laughed heavily at this. Then I asked Barbalay if she had ever kissed a girl and she laughed at me. Sagepuss puked on the floor when I asked this, and Barbalay made her clean it up with her pillow. I felt bad for Sagepuss since she now didn't have a pillow to sleep on, so I told her she could sleep in my bed with me if she wanted to. So she climbed into my bed. We spooned in my bed while Barbalay lied lonely on the floor without making a sound.

When we awoke, Barbalay was in the bed with us, part of our spooning connection. I asked her again if she'd ever kissed a girl and her answer hadn't changed. Sagepuss almost vomited again, but held it back. I grabbed Barbalay's face and pushed my lips into her's and kissed her hard and fast. First it was all lip-on-lip action and she hardly struggled. But as I felt her smooth skin in my hands I couldn't resist putting my tongue in there. Our tongues wrestled like two Jabba the Huts in a tar pit. Sagepuss stared at us and then asked if we would share with her, which we did.

After that morning, Sagepuss and Barbalay slept in my bed with me every night. We made out all the time. I was working hard on the farm, grooming horses and teaching them to read different languages in case there was ever another World War. I would ride the horses when the farmer man wasn't around, with no pants on and no saddle. I found that doing this in the day time made my underparts more raw for the experiences I would share with the girls at night. They loved it. I loved it, too.

Barbalay was about to finish high school and was getting restless and wanted to leave home. Sagepuss was still happy being at home, but I was also starting to feel like it might not be a bad idea to leave the farm and move on with my life. Barbalay and I talked about it for a long time one afternoon while I was milking a horse and decided we would run away. I told her the story of how I had already run away once, so she was convinced I'd be able to do it again. We worked on a plan. We had planned to do it one night but things didn't quite go as we had hoped.

I was in the kitchen making a snack and getting ready to go to bed. The farmer's wife Hannaloue came in and started talking to me. She must have been able to smell the mustard I'd wiped on my muff minutes before, because she said she wanted to make herself a sandwich. When it came time for her to put some mayo on her sandwich she asked me for the knife. It was a sharp knife, and holding it in my hands I knew I could cut her right then and there so Barbalay and I could make a run for it. But Barbalay was probably in my bedroom and it would take too much time to go tell her what happened. She probably wasn't even ready to go, yet. So I handed Hannaloue the knife. She started making her sandwich while I started eating mine.

As I took big bites of my sandwich I moved closer to her and started breathing harder. She noticed this and asked me if I was alright. I didn't answer, and as she asked me again I pulled her face to mine so I could kiss her. My mouth was full of mushed up sandwich and weeks old bacon and red meat, all which was shared with her through the intercourse of our mouths. She dropped the knife and embraced my affections. We ended up in her bedroom, totally naked. We 69'd as hard as we could. We must have done it for hours, because the farmer came in and caught us. He screamed up a storm something awful, and told me to get out of his house and never come back. I ran to my room to get my things and found Barbalay there. I told her I was leaving and she came with me.

Back on the street after only three months, I had no idea what we were going to do. We hitchhiked for a couple weeks, making our way all over the country and eventually ending up in Los Angeles, California.  Barbalay was almost 18 and realized we could probably get jobs as strippers. I was only 16 and told her there was no way it would work for me. Luckily for us, it worked. The first strip club we went to hired us right there off the street. They didn't bother to ask me my age or for any proof of identification. They said as long as I could bring in the money I could work there. Barbalay and I knew this was going to be something special.

Chapter 3. Oh My God, Lady, You’re Covered in Shit

I had to come up for air. I was gagging and just about to pass out, so I knew it was time to give it a rest - at least for a moment. My jaw was aching too, and all the muscles in my neck felt like I'd been hung in a noose. I usually came up right before asphyxiating. A Lady's got to get her air.

Sucking dick 80 times a day was really beginning to take its toll on me. Not that I didn't like it, of course. Being a 16 year old stripper was kind of a dream come true when I thought about it. I made money for doing what I was best at, and made even more money for doing things I was told I could get better at. Barbalay and I had gotten jobs at the dirtiest strip club in Los Angeles, California. It was called Appledance and we were free to do just about anything. The year was 1985 and the wild world of LA was such a fun place for a 16 year old girl to be living on her own.

Barbaly and I lived in a one room studio apartment as roommates, and had new guys and gals over to our place every night. Drugs were a big part of our lives, almost as much as sex and filth were staples of our diet. Our boss at Appledance would bring us pounds of coke whenever we asked for it, and the security guys who worked there, when they weren't fucking our brains out (and sometimes when they were), would give us PCP to really put us at the top of our game.

It was summer when we started our jobs at Appledance, and we, of course, got them by double teaming the owner, Jerthy Woodcock. Woodcock was an accurate surname for him, we came to find, as his penis gave us painful splinters which resonated shockwaves of pain through out our abdomens for weeks. My anus was rendered more filthy than ever before by his practice of mixing puke with sex, something I later began to integrate into my own sexual performances. I'd usually poop before and after giving a lapdance to a customer, but sometimes there wasn't enough time. Since we worked in the dirtiest place in town, lapdances could often lead to sex. And they usually did - 100% of the time. Tips were small, but I didn't care. Sometimes guys would specifically request me if they knew I had just taken a dump. They loved to get the whiff of my freshly wiped butt as I shook it in front of their faces.

One man by the name of Glibbord Squambles was a regular customer to Appledance, and always requested me by name for a lapdance. His fondness for my butt was well known. I'd always start the dance the same way, but how it would end up was always a mystery. I'd shake my butt and rub it in his face. He'd deeply inhale the fumes from my not-so-cleanly wiped ass, and  beg to be suffocated by my butt cheeks. This always happened. After a while he began to request that I never poop before our dance, so he could watch me poop during the dance. Each dance room was fitted with its very own bucket, the use of which was totally up to the girlsdancing in there at the time. Squambles and I used this bucket for my poop. I'd squat over the bucket while he watched me, and let one rip right into it. I'd usually fart a bit first, while he'd get excited and giggle at me, clap his hands, and snort. As soon as the turdsnake was out of me, he'd tackle me and rough me up a little bit. He'd always pour the bucket out on my face, or on my chest, or on the floor. He'd get me covered in my own shit and then try to scrape it all back into my butthole so we could do it over again. This part pretty much never worked.

Barbalay's regular clients just liked to sodomize her - nothing interesting. Not that I'm not a fan of being buttfucked - because I am, I loved it, I would sometimes dream about it during long dream-passages induced by mushrooms or LSD - but it's not as interesting as swimming in your own lake of shit and piss and then having it fed back to you. That's art.

Barbalay's drug of choice was coke, and mine was PCP. We'd been strippers for almost 4 years. It was now 1989 and we were living the life dreams are made of: every day we were blown out of our minds on at least 6 different drugs, blown out of our clothes on at least 12 different guys, and blown out of our money by at least 20 different Mexican muggers and Italian rapists. I was 20 and Barbalay was 21. She'd just had her 5th kid with a small-time LA rapper by the name of Deegzy Dawgz, and had successfully managed to get on welfare along with him.

One night, in April of '89, we were at a pretty hot Twisted Sister show in Santa Monica, CA and I was in the bathroom having just finished smoking PCP. I was sitting on the toilet, taking a poop, when this hulking behemoth of a woman came into the stall and didn't even notice me. This was back when I was still thin, mind you. She turned and sat on the toilet I was sitting on and I ended up fitting right up inside of her putrid and abhorrent anal cavity.

As she tried to shit, my petite, gassy, PCP filled body was blocking her bowels from being able to complete their mission. Instead, my entire body was being doused in pure liquefied diarrhea shit. It entered my mouth, my ears, my eyes, my nose, and flooded my brain. I couldn't tell if it was the PCP or the diarrhea in my brain that was ruining my connection with reality, so I didn't bother to figure it out. I grasped her buttocks and shoved her off of me in a blind rage. She flew through the stall door and landed on the ground, as a chocolate fountain of diarrhea sprayed from her anus all over the wall and the floor and the ceiling. She turned to see me standing in front of the toilet, covered in shit, and fueled by drugs and rage. I took the stall door off its hinges and beat her to death with it. It took only one minute.

At about this time Barbalay walked into the bathroom to do another line of blow, and noticed me putting the finishing touches on my bathroom-floor-murder.

"OH MY GOD, LADY!" she yelled. "You're covered in shit!"

"And I've killed a woman," I explained. "She covered me in her diarrhea and she needed to die!" Barbalay later told me the demonic glare of a PCP riddled brain was staring through my eyes when I said this.

"Girl, you gotta get outta here!" she told me. "Hurry up. I'll keep your secret, won't tell no one! Hurry! Someone's gonna come call the cops!"

I hugged her, in effect covering her in diarrhea splatter, and ran out the door. I left the club, left Twisted Sister, and knew I had to keep running... so I left everything I had in my life and made my way out of California.

I hitchhiked my way to Las Vegas, where I shacked up with a man named E. Puberus Poonam, a psychic witch-doctor who came from Poland. He told fortunes in his little shop downtown, where he'd also sell herbal remedies and parchment with spells written out in fancy letters. His eyes were like flickering candle flames, and wrinkles covered every inch of his face.

He had lots of handsome statues in his shop, my favorite one being a tall wizard-looking man with an engraving that said Bambarello on its base. He also had two rat statues and, some wolf statues, a stone lamp post, and a statue that looked like a giant tadpole wrapped around a child. Poonam said he never sold these statues because they were part of his personal collection. He was 65 years old and told me he wasn't interested in sex when I met him. He had happened upon me by chance when I was lying in a ditch after having not eaten for days. He had a station wagon and let me sleep in the back. He'd talk to me in Polish, thinking I would understand him. I told him I understood everything he said because I thought it made me look more sophisticated. He finally realized I was lying, and began speaking to me in his broken English. Polish-English, or Pol-lish, if you will.

"You make home in my home, woman-girl,"  was the first thing he said to me in his almost-English. After every few words it sounded like he had something in his throat and was trying to clear it, or cough it up. The first few times he did this I held a trash can in front of him at an angle for him to spit into it if he needed it. He would stare at it with dead, Polish warlock eyes, but never spit. "I am work in the shop with fortune and make business for the day. Making magic for customers and sell potions."

"That sounds great! I will sleep in the car or in the back room all day, if you don't mind," I informed him. 

"In the night you will do this," he said sharply. "In the day you will making money for living. How you will eat food and buy the clothes without money? You must work, it is America! Home of working people and the dream!"

"I have all the clothes I need!" I shouted. "And food isn't hard to find in Las Vegas, there are streets with popcorn on the ground anyone can eat. That's all I ate before I met you. And I heard a guy the other day - he was a black guy - and he said there was soup in all the hotel-casino water fountains. I'm gonna try to feed myself on that."

Poonam was a nice man, but he didn't appreciate that I didn't want to find a job. I lied to him and told him I used to work as an accountant for big company in New York. He said the needle holes in my arms and the stains in my hair seemed to contradict my story. But he said he still believed me and knew I wouldn't lie to him, because no one lies to Pollacks. While I never developed a very meaningful relationship with him, Puberus Poonam was a man I could rely on if I needed to. So it was stupid of me to burn down his store when I did.

It was an accident, but he had so many candles in that place he never lit. He thought they were good decoration just sitting there, not burning. I told him they needed to be lit but he said they were too dangerous to light, especially in a place so full of dark arts. I didn't listen and I lit all of the candles one morning in hopes it would really lighten up the place. Well, it did. The flames quickly caught onto the cheap quilts he had hanging on the walls, from which they quickly spread to the curtains, and then to the walls, and then his collection of wax moldings of Sean Connery, to his case of The Last Starfighter memorabilia, and then to the entire store.

"Woman-girl!" he shouted, running out of the back room as I sat on a rug watching the flames engulf the store. "What have happened? What have you done?"

"I'm so sorry, Poonam!" I yelled. "I didn't know it would get so hot in here!"

He gathered up as many small items and belongings as he could into his arms and ran from the store, telling me to get out. I ran out with him, and fell onto the pavement. A crowd gathered as the store burned, and Poonam's eyes filled with a similar kind of fire. 

"What did you do?" he asked me with a fierceness in his voice I'd never heard. 

"You know your candles you never light? I lit them! It was really beautiful for a minute!"

"Cannot light candles!" he screamed. "I tell you this when I meet you that no candle is for fire, just for showing! I am creator of fortunes and enigmas for all! Fire is no part of job or magic! Not my magic! No! You devil woman! Devil! Get away! Go! I curse you on this day!"

E. Puberus Poonam cursed me that day and kicked me out of his life. I walked down the disease infested streets of Las Vegas, looked at the sparkling lights of the hotels and casinos, ate street popcorn I'd gathered in my hand, and cried for the first time in my life. My tears left stains on the pornography littering the sidewalks. I had to get out of Las Vegas, because the only person I knew was now my enemy. Had to keep running, keep living.

I met a boy, named Hamport, who was at a bus station a few blocks away. I gave him a handjob on the bench, and he fingered me with his Walkman. We became pretty close in those few minutes, and he asked me if I would run away with him. I told him I was already running away from my past, so it wouldn't hurt to run away with him. He said he'd just murdered his parents and was trying to go to a place where nobody would ever find him.

"I gotta get out of here as fast as I possibly can," Hamport told me.

"Why?" I asked.

"I killed my parents this morning," he said. "Shot them both in their sleep. They tryin' to tell me I can't be an arm wrestler professionally, but they don't know nothin'. They don't know anything. Now they're DEAD!"

"Aw shucks, Hamport," I said. "I'd never be able to kill anyone."

"I know, Lady," he said. "You're a beautiful woman and I like your gentleness but appreciate that you know when to not be too gentle."

"Really? I mean, I'd never kill a soul. Even if they stuck me in their ass and shit on me and I was covered in their poop and I was really looking forward to standing 5 feet away from Dee Snider's penis while he sang "Stay Hungry". I couldn't kill anyone."

"I bet not, Lady. I know, I screwed up. But emotion runs wild in my heart and I have to do things sometimes that are just unpredictable." I liked his attitude and his renegade way of doing things.

"And if I did ever kill anyone, it'd only be because I was high on PCP and my brain was flooded with shit because, like I said, she'd have shit all over me." I looked wide-eyed at Hamport, convincingly portraying a woman who could never kill anyone.

He took my hand in his hand and we looked at the bus that was coming up. I looked into his eyes, which were either blue or green, maybe brown, and kissed him right on the penis. He stuck a finger in my butthole and we climbed on the bus together.

Where are we going, anyway?" I asked him.

"Our tickets say we're going to New York," he said. 

I smiled and once again, kissed him on the penis. He squirted into my mouth and fell asleep. I sat staring out the window for hours before I, too, fell asleep. I dreamed of skyscrapers and multicultural streets overrun with yellow taxis. New York was going to be my new home, and I couldn't wait. The future looked promising.

Chapter 4. Victory Bukkake

Hamport was my first real boyfriend. Sure, other men had enjoyed me sexually and used my body as a sort of pleasure trampoline, but none of them stuck around long enough for us to have anything meaningful come of our erotic exploits. Or maybe it was that I was a whore who opened my legs for anything that could even partially move and as a result didn't form lasting relationships with people because I was looser than a removed lug nut. Being locked in a closet for a year probably had something to do with my inability to form real bonds with people, too. 

Hamport and I were living in New York City, with his friend Damheid. Hamport had called Dam from a bus station in Colorado and told him he was coming to live with him because his parents had kicked him out of the house. Hamport was 31 years old when he had been living at home with his parents and killed them. He didn't have a job and his dreams of being a professional arm wrestler weren't working out, he'd told me. He didn't tell me too much more about how he killed his parents, but I'm like most girls in that I like bad boys and boys who aren't afraid to take charge. While some girls would find Hamport's violent, immediate past a little frightening, I found it arousing. Guess you could say I'm a free spirit - and I like other free spirits. 

When we had shown up at Dam's apartment, he was pretty surprised to see Hamport had brought me with him. Dam undressed me with his eyes and asked Hamport if they could double team me later that night. Hamport said he didn't know, yet. I told him they could. 

Dam lived in a lavish one bedroom apartment with about 300 square feet, brick and plaster walls, with bars on his windows and rats in the floors. He had a green sofa he said we could sleep on and gave us a recently-semen-encrusted blanket which he said would protect us from the midnight roach stampedes. I told him I slept naked and asked if that would be a problem. He said it would only be a problem if he didn't get to stick his penis in me while I slept. He was such a wordsmith I often found myself speechless at his charm. Hamport already knew I slept naked, because on our many bus rides to New York City we'd fucked in the back seats and in the bathrooms and at most of the bus stations. Even though I cut a hole in my jeans so we could fuck with our clothes still on, I'd strip naked afterward so I could cool off and clean the blood off my shirts or shoes. 

Dam worked as a pizza delivery guy and got Hamport a job doing the same thing. Instead of going out and getting a job right away I thought it would be best for me to sit at the apartment all day watching tv and eating corn dogs. This is exactly what I did. I also spent most of the days getting wasted on Thunderbird. At the end of their shifts, Dam and Hamport would always bring home lots of pizza. We'd eat the pizza together and then usually Hamport and I would fuck on the floor while Dam watched us and jacked off into the pages of his only book which happened to be in braille, which he would read with his other hand while still jacking off. He wasn't blind or nothin', he just knew how to read braille cause he said his parents made him learn when he was young cause they knew he'd go blind from so much masturbation. He'd read braille while jacking off just to keep himself trained and reminded of what his terrible fate may one day be. 

Every day I told Hamport how much I loved him but he never said it back to me. 

"Hammy," I said. "I wonder why you never tell me you love me."

"Cause I don't love you, Lady."

"What do you mean you don't love me?" 

"I mean I ain't got no feelins for ya. Nothin' personal, I just don't think I can love the way we was meant to love."

"Hammy! You're hurting me. I love you so much and I stopped having sex with other guys just to be with you."

"You didn't have to stop havin' sex with other guys for me, Lady. I ain't stopped sleepin' with other women."

“WHAT?” I was so angry!”

"I’m still fuckin' any girl I can get my hands on."

"OH MY LORD!" I shouted. For the first time in my life my heart was crushed and bruised and beaten. It was like someone had put deer ticks in my Campbells' soup without telling me, and when reaching for something to wash it down with all I could find was a bottle of Diet Coke with 11 ounces of date rape drugs in it and a laxative. 

"I thought you knew, Lady."

"I thought we were boyfriend and girlfriend!" I screamed.

"We are, Lady. We just got one of them, what you call it... open relationships. I thought you and Dam fucked all the time."

"I've never fucked Dam!" I told him.

Dam walked into the room to interrupt. "Well, maybe you should," he said. 

I looked up at him, and then looked at Hamport. I ripped open my shirt to expose my huge tits and tweeked my nipples for a couple seconds and then crawled on my hands and knees over to Dam and unzipped his pants. Right in front of Hamport, I gave Dam head. I thought what I was doing was going to make Hamport angry, but instead he came over and pulled off the rest of my clothes and gave it to me in the butt like there was a drought of anus on Hamport Dick Planet. He solved the drought crisis while I was bombarded in the throat by Dam's ejaculatory cock-missiles and nearly left unconscious by his violent way of showing appreciation (hammering nails into my skull while he came). 

That was the first time I was double-teamed by Ham & Dam. This went on for months. Then they began inviting their friends over, tag teaming me with three or four other guys, and sometimes just going all out with a victory bukkake typically ending the evening. Dam made it a point to never clean up after these cum drenched orgies, and thought leaving the dried semen of all of his best friends all over his apartment was a sign of true friendship and appreciation. He started charging strangers to come over and join in the fun, and soon enough the cordial bukkake between friends turned into a total cum-bath with the elderly, the crippled, the poor, the weak, the sickly and decrepit, and the painfully obese all sharing their juices to soak me from head to toe. We loved it. I usually consumed enough protein in these sessions to prevent me from having to eat much food for the rest of the day. But I still drank my Thunderbird religiously. 

One night, against all intuition, our enormous bukkake party went terribly wrong. I'd taken some good semen shots on the chin, on the butt, in the tits, between the legs, in the nostrils and in the ears. Hamport was setting up to deliver his greasy signature fireball of spunk right into my gullet when I got caught up in the moment and shouted, "pump those sperm bullets into my face like you pumped those lead bullets into your parents' faces!"

The roaring good time suddenly died down and everyone was silent. Hamport, having been in the process of working his sea men into the torpedo bay, was unable to fully retreat, and still unleashed his spray of white matter all over the wall as he pulled away from me in anger. When he finished, he turned and stared into my eyes. No words were spoken for almost a whole minute until Dam, loosening the tourniquet from around his balls said, "Ham... what's she talking about?"

"Uh..." Hamport started. 

"Just kidding!" I shouted, but it was too late. Hamport fell to the floor and began sobbing. A couple of the guys, total strangers to us still, went over to rub some of their sperm on his back, but he shook them away. I didn't know what to do. I held my mouth wide open, as if to suggest the show must go on. One guy agreed with me and ran up to quickly unload a squirt into my cum guzzling face, but it didn't taste fun anymore. The spunk had lost its spunk. 

Dam told the guests to leave, which they did after arguing a bit and refusing to get dressed. Most of them walked out the door naked, leaving their clothes to soak in our fortress of spermitude. 

Ham quit crying immediately, having done it all for show, and stood up to tell Dam he did, in fact, murder his parents in their sleep, and that he wasn't sorry about it at all. He went on to explain his dream of being a professional arm wrestler was not to be taken lightly and that "parents just don't understand," taking a line from his favorite Will Smith tune. 

Dam, on the other hand, understood just fine. He told Hamport and I that he, too, had murdered someone once. 

"Sixth grade," he began. "Me and this chick were talking about our favorite kinds of cereal, and next thing I know I'm makin' out with her. Well she doesn't like this at all, so she hits me in the chin and throws a rock into my eye. I don't even take a minute to think it over and I spit into her lunch box which I happened to be holding, because I was planning to eat her lunch after we were done making out. She gets even more pissed about this and takes off her shoe. Turns out she's hidin' a fork in there so she can eat her lunch later that day (I later found out her lunch was some kind of crappy noodle salad, and she definitely needed that fork). Well she jumps at me with this fork, tryin' to cut out my eyes or somethin'. I don't take kindly to people tryin' to cut out my eyes so I pull that fork from her hands and cut HER eyes out with it. She starts screaming like I killed her pet or somethin', really over reacting. So I take that fork and stab her in the heart. She drops dead right there."

Hamport and I nodded our heads. I thought that while we were all coming clean about our violent pasts, I'd might as well do the same.

"I killed someone, too," I said. 

They both looked at me. No words were said. I continued. 

"Hamport, before I met you I had killed a woman in a bathroom. I was at a Twisted Sister show and one thing led to another and... well, this woman died. I ran away from there ‘cause I knew I didn't want to go to jail, and that's how I met you."

Dam and Ham both looked disgusted, and after a moment of silence told me they couldn't stomach sharing the apartment with a murderer like me any longer. They told me to get all of my things, which included: nothing, and to get the hell out. I didn't bother to argue with them. I left. 

As I walked the city alone that night I considered going into the sewer to start a new life below the streets, to live amongst the rats and the scum and the filth and the turtles trained in martial arts. Little did I know that a life above the streets was awaiting me, calling me, summoning me away from the mediocrity which I knew, with hopes of unimaginable privilege and conquest. I just had to stumble across this life so I could follow its call.

Chapter 5. At the Corner of Broken Dreams and Crushed Horizons

I was a hapless creature without a place to call home. Wandering the streets after running away or being kicked out of someone's house was beginning to be a regular lifestyle for me. I was 20 years old and already I'd run away from my parents' home, run away from the farm house, run away from the entire state of California, had been kicked out of a psychic witch-doctor's home, and now had just been kicked out of my boyfriend's friend's apartment for being a murderer. Life's unfair and a stupid, fat fucking back-stabbing bitch, I decided.

I had nothing on me except the crusty clothes I was wearing and the dried up stains in my hair. Was it ever going to be possible for me to recover from this tragic blow I'd taken? Probably not. To be honest, I knew this was probably it. These were most definitely going to be my last few moments of life. I was going to lie down on the cold New York ground and let death take me in its boney, beautiful, charismatic arms. As I collapsed on the street, those walking by threw change to me in an effort to recreate cliche' scenes from movies in which a down and out loser is mistaken for a homeless bum on whom the townsfolk take pity. I liked this and kept it going. By the time midnight had rolled around I had raked in a sweet 40 bucks. Being that it was midnight, I really didn't have any place to spend this money besides bars that I couldn't get into anyway, so I stuck half of it between my hooters and half inside my cooter and passed out on a bench in the park.

Waking up drunk was nothing new to me. As a matter of fact, it was one of the most recurring experiences of my life besides a mouth full of dick and eyes full of cum, having grown much affection for Thunderbird and Cisco in my days as a stay-at-home girlfriend. But when I woke up on this bench in a drunken stupor I was a little surprised seeing as how I had gone to sleep sober. I sat up without the ability to prevent myself from falling over - which I did, right onto the fresh New York grass. New York's grass is not as green as they'd have you believe, but it's still got a fair hint of green and razor sharpness about it. This sharpness, which I just mentioned, cut my skin like lust cuts through the personal bubble of a man trapped between beds. If that doesn't make any sense to you then you've never cheated on your wife and you are probably afraid of a woman laughing at your penis. If that doesn't make any sense to you then I just can't help you.

Standing up with cut skin and a new-found drunkenness was a blessing not disguised at all, because the blood bled faster, flowed more fluidly thanks to the mystery alcohol thinning it out, and I was able to leave myself a blood trail back to the bench so when night came again I’d know where to go for sleep. And night would come again. One thing I’d learned in my 20 years on Earth was that night always came, much like a penis flicked at the right frequency. Its dependability was terrifying but reassuring. I made my way to a pawnshop nearby, which I had seen the night before on my way to finding the bench on which I slept. I walked inside to see how I could best spend my 40 bucks, and farted around looking at a pretty good deal on a Fairchild Channel F video game system. I was thinking of passing this deal up until I noticed this Channel F came with a video game and book as well, a fantastic looking thriller called Math Quiz (Addition & Subtraction) and Ken Uston's Guide to Buying and Beating the Home Video Games. I snatched that shit right up and had $3 left over for some lunch. After I got myself a hotdog at a famous New York Style Hot Dog stand I realized I didn’t have any place to play my newly purchased Channel F, because I was homeless. I was without home. A day-walker. A bum. A lowly clown in life’s cruel circus. I spent the next hours of the day trying to sell my Channel F to kids walking by and even adults, although I knew no respectable adult would be caught dead buying video games.

Trying to pawn off a Channel F was all for naught, I realized. Every little cock-sucking brat on the streets of New York had a Game Boy by now, which had just come out months earlier. My intoxication was growing curiously stronger, and I noticed that my rage grew with each passing minute as I was sitting broke and unable to get this useless Channel F off my hands. Ken Uston’s Guide to Buying and Beating the Home Video Games was a worthless investment to me, now. The only good it brought to me was that I could see Ken’s grizzly, bearded face on the inside cover, and could quickly get lost in his blackjack eyes until the problems in my immediate life seemed silly. But the coldness of New York in the late fall summoned me back to reality to remind me that I was poor and disgusting and had just bought the shittiest video gaming system on the planet along with a fucking waste of life videocart game in which I’d only experience the futility of trying to learn mathematics through a television. Ken Uston would be of no help to me any longer. In my drunken hate, I ripped the book into pieces and threw it in the face of a child walking by with his mother.

The child’s mother pulled the kid away from me, gave me the devil eyes and ran with the wee boy coddled up to her bosom.

As blood started to come out of my mouth I knew something might not be okay with me. Being a twenty-year old drug addicted alcoholic unemployed ex-stripper runaway instead of a doctor, I didn’t know what the problem could be. But being a twenty-year old drug addicted alcoholic unemployed ex-stripper runaway, I knew I could figure it out.

Not wanting to go to a doctor, I stopped at a pharmacy and asked to speak to the head pharmacist. He asked me what he could do for me.

“Well, doc,” I started.

“I’m a pharmacist,” he informed me, as if I didn’t know.

I stared at him for a moment, and continued. “Listen, doc, I woke up this morning a little bit drunk, and one thing led to another and now I’m bleeding from the mouth. What’s the next course of action I need to take?”

“Well, lady, since you’ve given me so much information to go on, and I am by all means a medical doctor whose job it is to diagnose and cure patients, such as yourself, and you’ve come to the right place, which is here, my office, I have only one thing I can really do.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Tell you to get the fuck out.”

I didn’t like the sound of that one bit. I was about to leave when I remembered I was carrying a Channel F video game system under my arm, as well as one copy of Math Quiz (the addition and subtraction version).

“Doc, do you think maybe I could interest you in this Channel F? If you give me whatever pills I need to fix my mouth-blood, I’ll hand this thing right over along with Math Quiz, free of charge.”

“I don’t want that old piece of shit video game,” the pharmacist said. “My kid’s already got a Nintendo at home, anyway.”

“Fuck Nintendo,” I replied. “Channel F is superior in every way and has 27 videocarts available to choose from, should you want to explore the diversity of their games beyond Math Quiz.”

“Are you some kind of idiot?” he asked me. He appeared to be serious.

“No sir,” I said. “I just have something you want, and you have something I want. I think we can make a deal.”

“You have nothing I want, lady,” he said.

My instincts took over and I set the Channel F down, unzipped my jeans, and flashed my swampy, marshland twat at the pharmacist and his assistants. I winked at him and smiled to put the icing on the cake.

Instead of hopping over the counter and raping me in the aisles of the pharmacy as I’d expected him to do, he walked out from behind the counter, stood in front of me and smacked me in the face with the backside of his hand. More blood flew from my mouth and splattered on the condoms to the side of me

“Now get your ass and your obsolete machine the fuck out of here before I call the cops!” he shouted.

I left my dignity in his pharmacy as I picked up the Channel F and walked out of there even more hopeless than I had been when I walked in.

Can a girl pray to a god she doesn't believe in? Sure enough. That's exactly what I did. I took a squat on the sidewalk at the corner of Broken Dreams and Crushed Horizons, clasped my hands together and squeezed out a curled up, steamy prayer all over the concrete, right in front of a good 50 to 60 New Yorkers who were too busy thinking about the Yankees and pretzels and subway aesthetics to notice. It's as if Zeus and that one with the beard and the other one with the white hair were all paying attention, because as soon as they caught a whiff of my prayer pile something very special happened.

A boot hit me in the face, knocking out my teeth and sending me flying into a fire hydrant at full speed. It instantly rendered me unconscious. This happening to me wasn’t what was special, but whose boot it was was special. I learned a day later when I woke up in the hospital the boot had belonged to a man by the name of Donald Trump. I’d heard the name before but didn’t know who he was. I didn’t have to ask anyone though, because he walked into my hospital room to introduce himself to me and to apologize for destroying my face, which he assumed had been beautiful at one point in my life.

Donald paid for the skin on my head to be stitched shut, the bone in my skull to be fixed and, best of all, felt sorry enough for me as pathetic as I was to offer to take me out to dinner when I left the hospital.

Weeks later my surgeries were complete. My Channel F had been left in my hospital room with me, and I took it with me when I left. Donald picked me up in a limo outside the hospital and took me to a place of my choice, which ended up being a Wendy’s in Brooklyn. We got to talking and more than once I tried to put my moves on Donald, while he more than once indicated he wasn’t interested. He said it was nothing personal, he just hated my body and found my face repulsive and my personality dreadful. But he said gazing upon a spectacle as miserable as me made him realize how blessed he was, and how some people are created just to be mocked for eternity. He said that while he was a particularly huge fan of mocking the less fortunate, he also liked to do charitable things from time to time to mix it up a little. He said he hadn’t mixed it up at all, let alone a little, in almost 10 years so it was about time for him to do it again. He said that as both a practical joke and a good deed, he wanted to offer me a temporary job at his massive corporate headquarters.

“I’d have to think about it for a while, Donald,” I said.

“Call me Mr. Trump, please,” he told me.

“I don’t think I need a job right now,” I admitted. “As soon as I can sell this video game I can get back on my feet and get into the swing of life again. Jobs aren’t really for people like me.”

“Lady,” he said, “I’ll cut to the chase. You don’t strike me as someone who has a lot to offer. Not a lot to offer the world, to offer a friend, to offer a potential lover, and definitely not a lot to offer a shining example of the peak of human accomplishment and success in all capitalistic endeavors, like myself. But I feel sorry for you, pretty much because you’re a joke. You’re a walking punchline. You’re the kind of pathetic person someone would only invent for shits and giggles in their most pitiful and lonely hours and thoughts. It almost gives me a heart attack trying to imagine you going on in this world. I think it would be both ball-bustingly funny if I gave you a job, and helpful to my image if I was seen giving a helping hand to someone like you.”

I didn’t know what any of that meant, but I like to look like I know what’s going on around me so I told him I thought it was a good idea.

“Great,” he said. “You can start tomorrow.”

He had his limo driver take me to a hotel not far from his office building, and dropped me off with $60 for a room.

“I’ll see you at 7:30 tomorrow morning,” he said, waving from the limo. “Get some rest!”

I went into the hotel and spent that $60 on cheap whiskey at the bar, hammering myself into a carelessness unbounded by any walls of civility. I slept in the parking lot in front of the hotel using the Channel F as a pillow.

Chapter 6. Mars Bar Delight

New York City concrete is pretty cold in the late fall, and waking up from it isn't how most people would want to start their day. But I was used to starting my days with tragic misfortune and disgustingly poor luck, so it was no big deal to me. Through my life some people have told me that it's not that my luck is disgustingly poor but that my decision making skills are unbelievably horrible and sometimes put me in situations that are not desirable. I don't know what to make of these comments so I do what I always do when I hear something I don't like - I fart loud enough to block out the commentary. Then I capture that fart in a jar and force it over someone's mouth while they're still talking and make them inhale the purebred pungent fart gas until they puke into the jar. Then I usually pour their puke on their faces and leave. 

I picked myself up off the cold concrete of the parking lot of some random hotel and felt a sensation unlike any I'd known before. It was the mysterious sense of purpose sitting in the back of my mind, like there was something I was supposed to accomplish that day. Sitting in a chair alongside this unfamiliar sense of purpose was the all too familiar sense of a hangover. I was still dressed in the jeans and black baggy shirt I'd been wearing for the last few weeks, giving my breasts enough room to sag freely. New to my outfit, however, was a splatter of vomit, which I found neatly strewn across my side, down my shirt, down my pants, and reaching to my shoes. I laughed, because I knew that meant I'd had a good night and need not worry about the possibility of having fallen asleep in a coherent state. 

I took my Channel F video game system and walked out of that parking lot trying to decipher the sense of purpose that found itself sitting comfortably in my brain. As the sense of a hangover drifted slowly away through the following hours, and I scavenged through garbage cans behind butcher shops and sandwich factories, the sense of purpose lit a cigarette to draw more attention to itself. What could it want? Didn't it know that I was a stranger to its presence and its call? No, obviously it didn't know this. How could it? A sense of purpose probably assumes all people are capable of interpreting its desperate signals to take action. From a young age my parents always told me I wasn't like other people and no matter how hard I tried I'd never be able to reach the potential that most people had. They had told me that my brain was made of bricks and mud and that when I was three years old a swarm of bees actually built their hive in my head for 6 months. My dad had originally decided to let them stay there so he and my mom could have free honey whenever they wanted. He said it worked for a long time until all the bee stings in my face had required me to be hospitalized. The bee hive was removed from my skull only after the doctor ordered it. 

In one of the trash cans I'd been searching through I found a loaf of steak-cake that was probably only a few hours old. There were still a few inches of it not covered by flies, so I sank my teeth into it. As soon as that sour, pancreatic-cancer flavor hit my tongue my sense of purpose flared up in my head and I remembered what it was I was supposed to do. Donald Trump told me to come by his office! He was gonna give me a job!

Finding that I had burnt the directions to his office into my inner thigh the night before when I was plastered, it wasn't hard to find his office building. Also, realizing that the office building was only a block from the hotel made it easy to find. Cleaning myself up would be a waste of time, so I just walked right in. 

"Lemme talk to Donald," I told the security guard at the front desk. 

"Donald who?" he asked.

"Donald Trump, mayor of New York City.”

"Ah. Donald Trump's not the mayor. But alright. Is your name Lady Molasses? He said he'd be expecting you. You're just as disgusting as he described you."

I didn't know how to respond to that comment, so I flashed my tits. The guard projectile vomited into his cereal and waved his hands at me to indicate I should leave and go find Donald. I did that. 

With my Channel F under my arm and my half-eaten (mostly eaten by flies, but partially eaten by me) steak-cake in my other hand, I barged into Donald's office and yelled at his secretary to get me a plate. Then I threw the steak-cake at her desk and told her that plate wouldn't be necessary. She smiled at me and said she knew who I was, and she pressed a button on her phone.

"Mr. Trump, Ms. Molasses is here to see you," she said into the phonebox. 

"Thank you, Mrs. Twinfielder," Donald said from the other end. In a minute he was walking out of the bathroom wiping strawberry sauce from his lips and asking me to follow him. 

We walked through the office while he showed me everything from the windows to the carpet, literally everything. Then we left the office and he gave me a tour of the entire building. I still didn't know what my job was going to be for him, but I paid close attention to everything he was telling me. When we had seen everything in the building we stopped by the bathroom. He told me to come in. He went into a stall to take a shit and continued to talk to me while his log-splitter did its work. 

"Lady," he said, "tell me what kind of work experience you've had in your life. I've got some ideas for stupid little jobs to give you, plenty of them amusing enough, but I want to get an idea of what you're good at."

I thought for a moment. I wasn't sure if my work history would impress someone as rich and as important as Donald Trump, but I gave it a shot. "Well, Mr. Trump, I'm somewhat like you in that I started out as a business woman."

"Oh?" he sounded interested.

"Yes. While still in grade school I began selling glass boxes filled with my own shit."

He was silent for a moment.

"They sold really well. All the kids loved them and I loved making them. You know what those big business guys always say? You should love what you do, right? Isn't that what they say?"

A few splashes emanated from his toilet, but other than that he remained silent. 

"So I... had to stop selling my shitboxes when I got into some trouble and kids started getting sick from taking my poop home and brushing their teeth with it and using it as bath soap. I didn't say they HAD to do that, I just told them it might work."

Donald coughed and I heard him pulling at the toilet paper to wipe his butt.

"Do you need a hand?" I asked.

"Please stay out there, Lady. It sounds like you understand what it's like to work in business. I like that. Don't get me wrong, I don't like YOU, but I do like that you've got some work experience. Tell me more."

"I used to work on a farm," I said. 

"Oh, tell me about that," he almost sounded interested.

"You might say I did a lot of horsing around."

"Why might I say that?”

"Because there were horses on the farm."

"Did you work with the horses a lot?"

"Yes, a whole bunch."

"So you horsed around while you were supposed to be working with horses? Is that right?"

"You might say that."

"Lady," he said. "I'm gonna cut to the chase. There's nothing you could have done in your life up to now that would prepare you for a real job working for The Trump Organization."

"Then why am I here?" I asked.

"Let me finish cutting to the chase, please," he demanded. "It would amuse me greatly and probably keep your filthy self off the streets if you did a particular job for me."

I was pretty sure I knew what he was talking about and got excited. "I am good at all kinds of jobs, sir! I've mastered hand jobs, blow jobs, muff jobs, rim jobs, trim jobs, golden brim jobs, and am a certified tug boat tour guide."

"First, gross. Second, I don't want you doing those kinds of jobs. Third, if you interrupt my chase-cutting again I'm going to make a soup in your butt-hole and feed it to you."

"Sorry, Mr. Trump."

"Lady, I want you to clean this place up. I'd like you to be my mop. Your head, with that raggedy, revolting, possibly portentous hair of yours would make an excellent mop to shine the floors of this place. I'll pay you five hundred a week. What do you say?"

I didn't say a word. Instead, I gave the universal hand sign for blow-jobs and hand-jobs being conducted together at the bottom of a swimming pool by a group of 14 year old neighborhood kids trying to sharpen their teeth and tighten their muscles. Where I grew up, this was how you showed someone you liked their offer. Donald didn't get it. 

"Yes or no, Lady. Take it or leave it."

"I'll take it, Mr. Trump!" I shouted. "Thanks so much! I can't wait! That's a lot of money to toss to me. Sure you don't want me to give you a lap dance or nothin'?"

"I'm sure," he informed me. "Now go see Erta in the cellar, she'll clean you up and get your hair ready for mopping."

I'd been working as the mop for Donald Trump's corporate headquarters for a couple of weeks before Christmas of 1989 rolled around. Erta, my boss and the person who used me as a mop to clean the place up, gave me a special present a couple of days before Christmas. It was a cherry flavored finger condom. I asked her how she came up with such a thoughtful gift and told her that it was like she'd known me all my life. 

She said it wasn't really a big deal, but that her son Yancy had given it to her a month earlier out of fear she might get pregnant again and give her son a new little brother or sister. Erta had never told her son the real way babies were made, and one day caught him fingering a young lady in his bed after a Run DMC show. She had grabbed Yancy and thrown him into the bathroom while she beat the young lady into a pulp and peed into her vagina for good measure. When she went into the bathroom to confront Yancy she told him that this was how babies knew it was OK to breech the womb and pop out of the vagina and run around like they owned the place, throwing placenta and other forms of afterbirth on the walls. She explained to him that babies always existed inside of a woman and only came out when they were lured or told it was alright to do so. Yancy learned that his habit of fingering girls in his bed after rap shows was going to lead him down a road of despair and fatherhood very quickly if he didn't cease and desist. 

Erta had told Yancy that she was going on a date with a Vietnam veteran who worked as a mechanic. Knowing a thing or two about mechanics, Yancy put two and two together and learned that a man good with his hands was not going to limit his handcraft to only working on automobiles. He would surely put those dancing fingers to use on his mother, so Yancy had to protect her. He gave her the cherry flavored finger condom to do so. Now that I knew the story behind it, it meant even more to me than it had when I took it out of its wrapper. 

I used that finger condom a lot in the following weeks, making every guy I met at a diner or a dance club put it on when he was gonna fingerfuck my twittlepit. Kept my womb tight and closed, safe from the unexpected. 

I kept the finger condom in a plastic bag so it could soak in its own juices and be more flavor-filled for every use. I met a man named Tommy Hilfiger at a pretty hip joint in Brooklyn one night and he actually asked me about my preference in finger condoms after we had a long talk about beachwear and cargo shorts. When I told him that I carried my own around with me (and that I preferred cherry) he was flabbergasted. He said he wanted to show me something very impressive that would knock me off my feet. Little did I know that he meant it would knock me into bed with him, but I didn't care.

He took me back to his flat, which is what they call apartments in Brooklyn. He took me into a walk-in closet in his bedroom and turned on the light. In front of me was a wall of cherries. Mr. Hilfiger apparently collected cherries and loved to share them with his friends. I told him that I didn't care for the food, I only liked the flavored syrup used in the skin of the condom. He said that wasn't important at this point, and all that mattered now was that I was in his apartment with him. 

One thing led to another (handjob led to blowjob, blowjob led to heavy use of the cherry picker, etc...) and we ended up lying on his bed with our butts clenched together. 

"I call this the Mars Bar Delight," Tommy told me. 

Before I had time to ask what he meant, he was shitting into my asshole, with liquid hot sewage-diarrhea, filling me up like a balloon. I started screaming and crying, but before my chocolate tears made it all the way to the sheets of the bed, I was smiling and having the time of my life. His shit was a spectacular sort, packed with minerals that gave me the euphoric feeling of floating on a cloud. As his sphincter delivered more and more poo-goo into my rectum he took the finger condom from his finger and slipped it between our buttholes to fill it with his butt-slop. When it was full, about to burst, he removed it and tied it together, and asked me to open my mouth. Afer I followed his commands like the trained dog that I was, he threw it into my mouth. I swallowed it down and kept it inside of me just like he wanted. 

When the shit being pumped into me from my asshole had filled me up enough to start flowing into my stomach, it met with the shit-filled finger condom and unleashed some of the cherry flavors from the condom's stretched skin. I could instantly feel the cherry sensation spreading throughout my body and secreting from my pores. Tommy removed his buttocks from mine and suctioned his lips over my armpit, where most of my sweat was pouring from. The cherry flavor, enhanced by his own feces and my body odor, gave him a high that he later said he'd never felt before from a simple Mars Bar Delight. We exchanged fluids through the mouth and I shared this high with him, lying on his shit encrusted bed staring at the ceiling. The ceiling was also covered in shit and corn. 

Tommy Hilfiger and I were not lovers, but we were good friends who enjoyed an occasional bath together. He had a job as a designer of sorts, though he'd never let me see his work. Sometimes I'd visit him at his clothing store and we'd play dress-up and talk about candy and geography. Other times he'd come over to the apartment I was renting and we would make pancakes together and watch MacGyver. For my 21st birthday in January, Tommy gave me a shirt he had designed all by himself with a big cherry on the front, with a smiley face saying "CHERRY UP". I laughed so hard at that shirt that some of the feces from our Mars Bar Delight weeks earlier came pouring out my nose. He knew it was funny too, so he told me to forget about it and he threw it in the garbage. I told him I'd rather him take me out to a bar so I could get tanked, since I was 21, than have some silly shirt about cherries. He did just that and I thanked him later the next morning by cleaning off his penis with my muff lips. 

It was something new to me to have money all the time, so I did the only thing I knew how to do: I spent it whenever I could. Living extravagantly wasn't something I'd ever been able to do before. The closest I came to that was living in a farmhouse and rubbing clams with two farmer's daughters every night. Now I was living in New York City, the City of a Million Nightmares and a Billion Dreams. I had the whole world at my fingertips, and wasn't going to let the excitement of a city like New York just get by without a little Lady in the mix.

Chapter 7. Animals and Candy Canes

You can take the girl out of the zoo but you can't take the zoo out of the girl. This was a lesson Tommy and I both learned pretty fast. And I don't mean this figuratively or in any other way than absolutely literally. Because while Tommy was forced to take me out of the zoo by the commands of the Zoo Director, the zoo could not so easily be taken out of me. This is because I decided to try my hand at bestiality while at a zoo on a Friend-Date with Tommy. The zebra, coyote and mountain lion which I had managed to bring together to triple team me in the House of Reptiles while Tommy was getting us fat salted pretzels at the snack stand outside all had their beast-penises deeply penetrated into my human-vagina.

The magic of certain animals and their genitals is that when they begin to fuck, their penises swell up to an awkward largeness that makes it impossible for them to remove their members from the victim/experience-sharer until ejaculation is complete. This happened to be the case with the zebra, coyote and mountain lion I had chosen as my bestial cherry-poppers. Tommy and three zoo employees had to roll me and my three beast-lovers out of the zoo on a large rolling utility platform, covered in sheets so the zoo's visitors wouldn't have to see the travesty they were transporting.

When we were safely in the parking lot, away from any visitors, the sheets were removed and the employees and Tommy all stood back to watch the animals finish fucking me. I won't say I didn't enjoy it, because I loved it. Of all the sexual experiences I've had when men have called me an animal, this time I was able to deliver the compliment to my partners and really mean it. Animals are not gentle, nor do they care if you start to bleed. And bleed I did. Obviously, the three animals I chose to have bang my brains out were not the best of friends, predatorily speaking. I don't think mountain lions hunt zebras or coyotes, but none of these animals get along when put together. They were all viciously fighting one another while they were simultaneously battling to ejaculate into me so that they could flee and be free. Their teeth and claws and hooves were flying, fur was going everywhere, and the zoo employees didn't know if they should tranquilize them or not. After a bit of contemplation, Tommy told them it would be best to tranquilize all four of us.

The men made a call for someone to bring a tranquilizer rifle out to them in the parking lot, but he didn't call fast enough. The mountain lion ended up winning the ejaculation race and came all over my uterus first, followed by a quick removal of his lion-dick. He then turned toward the zoo-men, and in a post-sexual fury he pounced on one, ripping his teeth into the man's neck and digging his claws into his abdomen. Tommy and the other zoo-men fought the ferocious beast frantically while I continued to squirm in the delights of illegal sexual conduct.

In a matter of moments two zoo-men came running to the parking lot carrying tranquilizer rifles, ready to shoot my lovers. They shot the mountain lion first, barely prolonging the agony of the attacked zoo-man underneath, who they rushed to the zoo clinic and then to a hospital. But they stood mesmerized for a few moments, watching the zebra and coyote screw me like it was their first and last inner-species fuckfest. To their surprise, and my surprise, the zebra and coyote started kissing each other. If you're wondering how a zebra and a coyote kiss I can't even begin to explain it. But everyone there saw it, and sat in amazement at the love they were witnessing. Only when they started kissing one another and realizing their love for the other did they ejaculate, at the same time, into my wounded orifice. I was able to slowly remove myself from their embrace, and roll over to Tommy, where he stood holding my pants, which I'd left on the floor of the House of Reptiles.

The zoo-men didn't bother to tranquilize the zebra and coyote, and as far as I know, they just let them both lay there in love for the rest of eternity. I really don't know for sure, because I was handcuffed by some police officers who showed up to arrest me for public indecency and bestiality. Tommy said he'd see about bailing me out of jail, and kissed me as they put me in the back seat.

Sitting in jail, I met a woman named Fresca D'Lishus who had also just been arrested.

"My name's Lady," I told her.

"I'm Fresca D'Lishus," she said. This is how I found out her name. Through her lips.

"What are you in here for?" I asked.

"Pfft. Something silly," she replied. "You wouldn't believe it."

"I'm in here for being naked at a zoo," I told her as I rolled my eyes.

A cop overheard this and shouted, "No, you're in here for fucking three different animals at the same time."

I rolled my eyes again.

Fresca giggled, and nodded. "You sound like a woman I could be a best friend with."

"Thanks, I guess. So what are you in here for?"

"Well, giving out candy canes, to be totally honest."

"Are you serious? Giving out candy canes? What's so illegal about that?"

"Some people don't want them," she said.

"I'm surprised someone wouldn't want a candy cane. I'm also surprised you can be arrested for giving them out. Were they free?" I asked.

"Of course they were free, honey. Ain't no one gonna pay for a candy cane, or at least admit to it."

"I've paid for candy canes, before," I said.

"Oh?" she remarked, as if to cast doubt on my perfectly honest statement.

"Yeah, what's the big deal?"

"I don't think you've ever had a candy cane, honey," she told me.

"Excuse me? I think I would know if I've had a candy cane."

"Girl, unless you've got a dick I don't think you've had a candy cane."

Another woman in jail, sitting on a bench across from us chimed in. "I don't think the two of you are talking about the same kind of candy canes."

We both looked at her and Fresca nodded.

"Lady, what I'm talking about isn't the candy you're thinking of."

I sat silently, farted silently, thought silently, and begged her pardon. "I beg your pardon?"

"What I'm talking about, Lady, is when you're giving a guy a blow-job and his dick is really hard. I mean really hard. It's so hard and you're getting so into it that you bite down onto it right when he cums. You bite so hard that the dick starts to bleed, and boy does it bleed. The veins in that erect penis will just start spraying blood like there's no tomorrow. And since he's just cum, you do a little swirling, barrel-roll type of maneuver in which you mix the blood and semen together all over his dick, and as you move your lips outward, you leave red and white stripes down the shaft all the way to the head. When you take your mouth off the penis it looks like a candy cane. More or less."

"More or less," repeated the woman sitting on the other bench.

I continued to sit silently, but this time with my eyes wide open in what, in retrospect, I would call fascination. "Is that... real?" I asked the two ladies.

They both nodded.

"Where did you learn this?" I asked.

"I made it up," Fresca told me.

"Then how do you know about it?" I asked the woman on the bench.

"Overheard the cops talking when they brought Fresca in, today," she told me. "Apparently Fresca here gave both cops a candy cane on the way into the station... upon request.

Fresca nodded, and smiled.

"I see how we could be best friends," I said to her. Then we hugged for an hour.

Tommy bailed me out of jail after I was there for a few hours, and on our car ride home I asked him if he liked candy canes. He said he was pretty fond of them around Christmas time, but didn't really give them much thought. Since it was now the summer of 1990 he probably figured he was a good half year away from experiencing any candy cane joy. I was going to prove him wrong that night in bed.

The night ended with Tommy kicking me in the face and running naked out of my apartment holding his bleeding penis in his hands, crying and screaming loudly. I wiped the blood from my mouth and ran to the door to yell for him, but he couldn't hear me. He just kept running. I called him three times that night hoping to talk to him to ask him why he left in such a hurry, but he wouldn't pick up.

He didn't call me back the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that. I was getting stressed and started to feel like maybe I'd lost my best friend. I took a bus to Brooklyn and walked to his apartment to try to talk to him face-to-face. When I knocked on his door he wouldn't answer, and finally called the police to escort me out of the building.

My hair started to fall out, which was probably a result of my strenuous job as having my head be the floor mop for Donald Trump's corporate headquarters rather than stress, but it wasn't making matters any better. I used my fat paycheck to buy myself round after round at all the hippest joints in New York City. Being only 21 years old and still having a body that wasn't more than 10 pounds overweight, plenty of the guys at the clubs and bars wanted to fuck me. So they did. It seemed like for every shot of vodka I took, I took a load of semen on my lips or my ears. Ordering 15 White Russians in a row meant only ordering the 15 shots of vodka. The white was supplied by my new boyfriends.

By the end of the night I was coughing up various flavors of semen left and right. I'd burp, and taste Jerry from the 9:30 pm "bridal shower" he gave me. I'd burp again and taste Martin from the 10:15 "fireman's hose" experience we shared. I burped again and caught the savory taste of Van Munen's 11:30 "probing expedition", Teekman's 11:35 "shotgun flesh cannon", and Mark Trumpust's 12:01 "whipped cream jelly stool", all reminding me of my adventures that night. To top it all off, I remember finishing the night with a merry-go-round of candy canes, delivering them happily and freely to all the hip New York studs at the last club I ended up in. The good thing about these flavorful reminders was that they'd continue to remind me even the next morning after my hangover.

The next day, after my hangover the size of Manhattan dissipated and my friendly, tangy reminders of the night before had lost their sensational taste, I began missing Tommy again. Unlike every experience in my life up to this point, drinking away my sorrows didn't actually solve a damn thing. I tried to call him one more time, but there was no answer. I called him at work, he answered, and hung up on me before I could finished reading him a family favorite Bible passage as a means of apology. It was hopeless. I had to think of something to get Tommy back into my life, even if it was something drastic. I knew where I had to turn to find motivation and inspiration for a thoughtful solution to my problem. I knew a guy named Smoma who sold meth. I called up Smoma and within an hour he was at my place, exchanging a good amount of meth for a rim-job.

After sitting around all day beating my legs with sticks and smoking enough meth for 6 homeless hookers, I knew what I had to do. Around 11 that night I dialed 911 to report a murder.

"911, what is the nature of your emergency?" the operator answered.

"I want to report a murder!" I shouted.

"Alright ma'am," she said calmly. "What -"

"I just killed my best friend!" I yelled.

"You killed your best friend?" she asked.

"Yes! I murdered him right here in my apartment with a telephone pole and steel!"

"Was it in self defense? Was he attacking you?" she asked, calmly.

"NO! He just walked in the door to tell me that I was his best friend in the world and I went berserk and started throwing bricks at his head and before I knew it he was unconscious in a pool of blood and poop and I just started beating on him like a crazy woman!"

"Ma'am, where are you located right now?" the operator asked me.

"I am in my apartment, sitting next to my dead best friend Tommy Hilfiger."

"What is your address, ma'am?"

I gave her my address and finally managed to fake some tears. It took me a minute to realized she couldn't see my tears so I started bawling loudly so she could hear my convincing sadness.

"I am sending police officers to your apartment right now, Ms. Molasses," she responded.

I hung up the phone and knew I had just executed the perfectly crafted plan. I finished off my pile of meth, and the cops knocked on the door. It was only then, at about the time their knocking and identifying yells of "Police!" began, that I realized this plan was not perfectly crafted after all. There was no dead body in my apartment. I frantically looked around in hopes I would find a sex doll that could imitate Tommy for me. I could find nothing. The cops kept knocking and I eventually answered the door.

The cops had their guns drawn. "Are you Lady Molasses?" they asked.

"Yessirs," I said.

"You called 911 to report a murder, claiming that you had killed someone."

"That's right," I said, proudly.

“We were told you killed him here in your apartment, we need to see him."

"You can't see him," I told them.

"Ma'am, show us his body immediately. We have the right to search your entire property without a warrant when you report that a murder has taken place."

"There's no body to show," I said.

"Why not?" one cop asked.

"I... ate the body," I said, letting some tears flow freely.

"You can't eat an entire human body," one cop said to me. He seemed to be buying it.

"Yes you can," I said. "I did it. I ate him all up. Even the bones."

"Ms. Molasses," the bigger, scarier cop said, "I don't believe you, and you need to show us the body right away." He pointed his gun at my face – a classic cop trick.

"Ok," I said. I opened my mouth and put my finger down my throat, gagged on it and began spewing vomit across the room and into the faces of the cops.

They tried to shield themselves but it was terrifically impossible. The vomit just kept coming, and in the process of spraying it all over them I noticed I could still taste a few hints of the night before, and surely the officers would taste it too, as soon as they were able to totally absorb the liquid defilement I had shared.

I started coughing and quit puking. "Hold on," I said. "I've got more."

"NO!" they shouted. One officer started crying while the other one began to vomit on himself. They called for backup and within minutes other officers arrived to question me on my reported murder. I was clever and made up a hundred lies that they would never be able to detect.

After the questioning and decontamination ended, the police confirmed that Tommy was still alive, and arrested me for lying to them and prank-calling 911.

I couldn't call Tommy to bail me out of jail this time. I did the only thing I could and called my boss, Mr. Trump, to come bail me out. He said he would do it, but after hearing why I was in there he said he'd let me stay the night in jail to think about my behavior before he came to free me. I faked some tears again but by the time I remembered he couldn't see them because we were talking on a telephone he had already hung up. Here I was, in jail again. The jailer took me to my cell and gave me a pillow.      

"We'll come get you when you’ve made bail," he told me. “Until then, sit tight.”

I walked into my cell and the door was locked behind me. I turned on the light and saw Fresca D'Lishus sitting on the top bunk.

"Lady!" she yelled. "Oh, you've come back to see me!"

We embraced and hugged for about an hour. When we stopped hugging we sat down to talk.

"Lady, I've got something new I want to show you. In the last few days, since we talked, I came up with something spectacular. Being in jail with other women has led me to some experimentation. Take off your pants."

"Oh my goodness," I exclaimed. "Surely!"

I unzipped my pretty sweet 1990's jeans and threw them to the ground.

Fresca moved her face close to my beaver and looked up at me. "I call this the peppermint," she said.

Chapter 8. Lawyers and Peppermints

When Donald bailed me out of jail he gave me a stern talking to, almost like he was my dad. He gave me a rundown on the immoral nature of bestiality and how its impact on the animal kingdom was often misunderstood and overlooked by the greater whole of society. I told him I had a court date to get my sentencing for bestiality, but that the police were dropping the charges of me being a "lying cuntbag" as they put it, because they felt sorry for me and determined that my low IQ made it impossible for me to know that what I did was wrong. I think the tugboats I gave a few of the cops helped out with that.

Over the next couple of weeks my hair continued to fall out as I put in extra hours as the floor mop to earn some extra money to cover my court costs and to hopefully hire a good bestiality lawyer. I asked Donald how I might find the right lawyer for the job, and he directed me to a lawyer's guild which he said he worked closely with, being a powerful businessman. I had asked him how to contact the guild, so he called me into his office one day to have me meet one of his lawyers to explain the process.

"Hello," the tall glass of milkshake of a man said to me. "I'm Krimwhim T. Spinglebrooks."

"Hi!" I shouted. "I'm Lady Molasses."

Donald put his hands on our shoulders to pull us closer together, and said, "this is my floor mop, and she has sex with animals."

I blushed.

Krimwhim and I shook hands, and I licked my fingers afterward. He did the same, and then we shook hands again and kissed on the lips for a minute before Donald separated us by his arms length.

He gave me a red card about the size of a credit card with gold lines on it.

"This is a temporary lawyer's guild pass, Lady," Krimwhim explained. "This will get you into their sanctuary, which they don't open up to just anybody."

"How do I use it?" I asked.

"Knock on the door at the courthouse and they'll tell you to slide your guild pass for access. If you slide it right the first time, they let you in. If you mess up, and you probably will, they charge you a $56 re-sliding fee and an application for re-sliding approval which takes an hour to process."

"Oh gee. Hope I don't mess it up."

"You will," Donald chimed in.

A couple hours later, I sat in front of the courthouse after paying my $56 re-sliding fee, and waited for my re-sliding approval application to be approved. After three and a half hours the slit in the door slid open and a man told me I could re-slide my card. I did so, and this time it worked! But the large door didn't open. Instead, a hidden trap door on the ground a couple feet away from me popped open.

"Go in there," the man on the other side of the door told me.

I followed his directions and went down the tight fit spiral staircase revealed by the trap door. I walked down what must have been a hundred feet until the stairs opened into a huge cavern lit by torches and golden chandeliers. Walking with purpose but apparently random trajectories around the huge underground lair were about 200 suited men with briefcases and nicely combed hair. Each had a Motorola DynaTac 8000m mobile phone held to their ears, speaking angrily to people on the other lines. This was the first time I had seen mobile phones and was in awe at their technological superiority when compared with my rotary dial at home.

I wandered around the vast subterranean dwelling trying to catch the attention of one of the highly important men buzzing like bees around me. Predictably enough, I resorted to my attention grabbing tactics from my days in school. I dropped my pants and pulled the tampon out from my weather-beaten cave-for-cocks and let the blood flow like a Kool-Aid Niagra Falls out of me, onto the rock floor of the great den. When my Blutlach was large enough so that lawyers found themselves walking through it and making footprints of blood on their ground, they began to take notice of my presence. I stuffed my tampon back into my cherry, pulled up my pants, and asked one of the horrified looking lawyers where I might find an attorney specializing in bestiality.

"Trandhoff holds a specialty in that area, Miss," he politely told me. He then pointed me to a bald fat man under one of the torches, smoking a cigar and smoothing out his tie.

I thanked him and approached Trandhoff.

"Mister Trandhoff, hi," I said, waving to him as I walked up to him. "I am looking for a good bestiality lawyer and I hear you're the man."

"Oh no, my dear," he told me. "I merely specialize in bestiality and am a long-time practitioner of this behavior. You want someone who specializes in Bestial Law and Beast Sex Defense."

"Yes, that's what I need. Where would I find a lawyer like that?"

He pointed to a heavily bearded man whistling, combing his beard.

I thanked him and walked over to the bearded, whistling man. "Hi, I need a bestiality lawyer. Please help me."

He introduced himself, "I'm Isbuf Hulliwardjeck. I would be happy to defend you in a case of bestiality."

I gave Isbuf the details of my case and he thought he could help me. A few months later, at my trial, I discovered he couldn't help me at all. It turned out that Bestial Law was not a highly regarded field of expertise by judges and the judicial system in general. It was now November of 1990 and Isbuf and I had worked hard for months on putting together a defense that just didn't work at all.

The judge was a big black chocolate man who I pictured naked through out the duration of the trial, only because it was a delicious thought to have in my mind during such an unpleasant time. While I daydreamed of his big chocolate penis forcing its way between my vanilla cream thighs and into my trumpeted cave of flavors and treasures, he ridiculed me in front of the jury, asking me what I was thinking by doing such a disgusting and depraved act.

"Your honor, I'm just a free spirit. I'm impulsive and I like to live life minute by minute, as it gets thrown at me. I like to experience everything and have fun." I knew he and the jury would be able to sympathize. Isbuf said this was a rock-solid strategy.

"Young Lady," the BBJ said from his throne/altar/judge's chair, "this is exactly the problem. In my fifteen years as a criminal court justice, and not to mention my fifty-five years as a human being, I've found that "free spirit" and "impulsive" are terms used by stupid, vapid, young women such as yourself to sugar-coat the fact that they're really braindead imbeciles who lack the faintest semblance of cognitive abilities and are absolutely unable to make an intelligent or rational decision in any situation, under any and all circumstances, even in the event that their lives may depend on it. These unfortunate Mistakes of God are usually able to spread on the slimy charm in some situations, which may get them by at times. In your case, I doubt any such charm exists. These girls, for calling them women would be a great disservice to mature and intelligent females, also are completely without any grasp of the notion of responsibility, personal or otherwise. There's no question that this describes you as well."

I looked at Isbuf, because I didn't know what the judge had just told me.

Isbuf whispered in my ear, "he thinks you're stupid."

I nodded and told the judge I didn't agree but that he was entitled to his opinion.

"Lady Molasses, you are hereby sentenced to 6 months in the New York City Abernathy-Roosevelt-McDonald Medium Security Prison For Women," the judge said. "You are under a restraining order to never go back to the New York Zoo in your entire life, and are advised to stay very far away from any animals unless you'd like to get beaten to death."

Isbuf's first strategy of our trial had failed. He had originally attempted to prove that my act of bestiality was not animal cruelty, due to the fact that all of the animals were male and I was female, and thus they must have wanted to fornicate with me or else it would not have happened. But a few zoo employees testified against me, claiming I'd put treats inside my butthole and vagina to get the animals to begin licking and biting at my puss-n-boots, and then claimed that I orally serviced the animals to put them in the mood for sex, and then put the scent of wild animals on me to imitate being a beast in heat. None of this could be proven, but the jury didn't like it. Isbuf's second idea was to get them to sympathize with my free-spirited nature, which didn't work. Now I was going away for 6 long months of jail.

I knew there'd be peppermints in prison, even if I was the one who was going to have to teach the method to everyone. My vagina hadn't quite recovered from Fresca's peppermint initiations she'd put me through over my night in jail. But bite marks were a reminder of my rite of passage. I was going to spread the love through my own lip-to-lip, teeth-to-labia distribution of the peppermint.

I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas still as a free woman, and decided to give back to society before serving hard time for my criminal acts. I  played the part of the turkey on Thanksgiving when I went to a local soup-kitchen to offer to feed the bums. What I meant by this offer was that I had already basted myself at home and put stuffing inside of my butt crack and cranberry sauce in my vagina, and I was ready to have the homeless men, women and children taste different parts of my naked body. I stripped down to nothing but my juice-covered flesh there in the soup-kitchen. It turns out the people in there really loved my idea, and homeless people and volunteers alike enjoyed celebrating Thanksgiving by feasting on my naked body, sampling the treats stuffed into my anus and the sauce dripping from my festive pussy. Everyone was having a great time, including me.

People would get down on all fours and lap up the leakage from my twat like little puppies, and others would bite really hard into my skin to soak the flavor into their tongues, and then make out with other people in the soup-kitchen to trade off flavors they'd found in me or on me. I was the life and meal of the party. I didn't let anyone know it, but I was on my period at the time. The cranberry sauce wasn't the only red substance dripping from between my legs, so plenty of my menstrual blood was being consumed along with everything else.

I felt a little bit like Jesus Christ, having people eating my body and drinking my blood. Thanksgiving was a very spiritual experience for me, and something I knew I should try to celebrate every year. Christmas wasn't as good.

For Christmas, I went to an orphanage and organized a secret-Santa gift exchange. But it wasn't like most gift exchanges. I used some of my leftover trial defense money which I hadn't yet spent on huge court fees to build a maze out of cinder blocks and stolen scrap metal. The orphaned children had to run through the maze to find their gifts, but I played the part of an angry Santa Clause who ran through the maze with a sledgehammer, chasing the children and scaring them if they took the wrong turn or found a corrupt treasure.

I never actually sledge-hammered any of the kids, but when word got out that I had chased them and scared plenty of them into paralysis or into urinating or defecating on themselves, I was asked to leave. But the looks on those kids' faces when they got their gifts at the end of the maze was worth all the trouble. Waiting for them at the finish line were boxes of cereal, cartons of milk, bags of rice, and Thundercats action figures. The kids who made it to the finish were so very, very happy. The ones who didn't were a little bit traumatized. The Orphan Director was named Melandanannie Mankeran and she wasn't happy with the thought I had put into this treat for the youngsters. She and three of her employees assaulted me and left me in crippling pain in a ditch in the Bronx. I crawled home to my apartment to celebrate Christmas alone, bloody, and mournful.

I went to jail on New Year's Day of 1991. Donald told me my job would be waiting for me when I got out, and he laughed at me as he dropped me off at the medium security prison for women. I went to my cell and met a nice young Mexican girl named Slandy who was going to be my cell mate for a few months while she served time for attempted carjacking.

When night fell and Slandy and I were about to go to sleep, I asked her if she knew what a peppermint was. I told her I wasn't talking about the candy.

"I've never heard of it," she said. "What is it?"

"It's when I eat you out real good like, real deeply and softly at first. But then I bite into your clit and start to pull it and tongue-punch it until you start to cum. As soon as I can taste that you're cumming, I sink my teeth into your labia and grind away at it until you begin to bleed. I gnash my teeth all around your pussy-hole while the cum is coming out. When I pull my head up from between your legs and squint my eyes just a little, your vag looks like a peppermint!"

"Cool!!" Slandy proclaimed. "You wanna do that to me?"

"Sure do, Slandy," I said. "Would you let me?"

"Boy would I ever! You bet!"

I helped Slandy take off her pants and panties and got to work on her under parts while she moaned and groaned. It was then that I realized that 6 months of prison wasn't going to be so bad. I'd probably make tons of friends and have plenty of stories to share with Donald when I got out, as well as memories to last me a lifetime.

Chapter 9. Girls Can’t Rape

In jail I was becoming well known for spreading a certain disease among the prison population. It's a disease I call love, but the prison nurses had a different name for it. They called it Chlamydia. They traced the spread of the disease all the way back to me, claiming I directly infected 24 different women, which then led to over one hundred more women catching it. The nurses asked if I'd had sex with any wolves lately, and I told them I had not since I had been in prison. When a guard notified the nurses that I was in jail for multiple acts of bestiality, they said it was clear where I got the disease. It wasn’t clear to me, and no one ever bothered to explain it to me. My peppermint experiments were over, because they now decided to put me in isolation so I wouldn't be allowed to sexually molest any of my fellow prisoners.

While being separated from my friends in jail I was treated for chlamydia and any other sexually transmitted diseases I may have contracted. I was tested for others and the nurses each acted surprised to find that chlamydia was the only thing I seemed to have. They shared stories with me about their days in college and said they understood my sexual promiscuity, and that everyone had to go through it before they could become a woman. I told them that I was not in college and was already a woman, as the sprouting jungle of pubic hair between my legs could attest to. They each took turns showing me their own pubic regions, telling me that I would notice a different bundle and shape and color and size to each of their hair-havens. The head nurse, letting me brush her bush with my teeth just to get a feel for it, said that it wasn’t the size or density of a woman’s mound that made her woman, but what she did with her pubes.

Uncle Flambert never told me this. Flambert said that as long as I sported a monster-mound and tit-milk I could consider myself a woman. I had considered myself a woman for years, ever since my little pound cake had been sprouting whiskers.

The nurses became friendly toward me and would take turns braiding my pubic hair while drawing my blood. Sometimes I would pee a little bit while they were doing it, just as a joke. They always laughed and never cleaned it up, saying it was better that I just be drenched with the smell of my own urine from time to time, because that’s the kind of animal I was. I thought that was hilarious. They laughed at me a lot and I’d always laugh too, even when I didn’t know what was so funny.

I wasn’t allowed out of my cell of solitude for the rest of my stay in prison because I was considered a high risk sex offender who posed a threat to medium security inmates who didn’t come to prison to be raped and duct-taped, as they put it. I never used duct-tape except this one time when my bitch friend Natasha wasn’t putting her legs in the right position for me to get my tongue far enough into her rectum. I had bought some duct tape from Helga in the pencil shop, so I pulled it from under the bed and taped Natasha to the ceiling while I stuck things into her, like socks, cigarettes, pillows and bars of soap. Got in trouble for that.

Oh, and there was the time I duct taped Melissa to her bed so I could show her what shit tasted like without her trying to run away. She said she wasn’t a lesbian and didn’t want to taste any girl’s shit. I told her she’d realize she was wrong once she had her first mouthful, but she wouldn’t listen. Had to knock her out and tape her down. When she gargled my shit she wasn’t able to verbally express her satisfaction, but I knew she was having fun because her head kept bobbing back and forth like she was giving a blow job, but was too drunk to finish. I kept her duct-taped down until she had to poop herself, so I only took the tape off the area around her waist and slid her pants down, put my mouth under her butthole, and told her to let it rip. She refused for a few minutes until I tickled her enough with my tongue so that her sphincter was no longer able to withstand the torment. A smooth, snake-like turd filled with tasteless prison food crept out of her butthole and into my mouth.

Having been a professional of deep-throating, I was able to take the whole monstrous turd in my mouth and keep it there, lodged partially in my teeth and mostly in my throat. Melissa had by now puked all of her own shit up all over herself, so I put my mouth to hers and forced some of her own shit into her mouth with my tongue, knowing she’d love it. She immediately vomited straight into my mouth, which then swooshed right back into hers. I sat there with my mouth suctioned to hers for a few moments while we exchanged her shit and vomit back and forth.

So those were the only times I used duct tape, but I hardly ever raped anyone either. I’m a girl. Girls can’t rape.

Judges seem to see things differently, however, because charges were pressed against me for “forcing sex” on a few ladies, and for “assault” (like feeding someone their own shit counts as assault… yeah right). Before I made it to isolation I had to go back to court to try to defend myself against the claims that I had committed more crimes. I told the judge if I was committing crimes, I didn’t know anything about it. This judge was a woman and she seemed to not be  fan of rape or coprophagia. I was sentenced to an additional two years of prison, and all of that time was to be spent in solitary confinement. Wonderful.

Sitting in my isolated chamber in prison, I couldn't help but feel a little bit like a teenager again. This reminded me of the closet I lived in when my parents were locking me away for having too much sex with everything and everyone. Here I was, 22 years old, back in solitary confinement for my sexual crimes. Was I ever going to learn? Nope.

I spent the rest of my sentence in solitary confinement. In June of '93, when I got out, Donald picked me up and I told him all about my prison sexperiences and isolation.

"So you were a pretty popular lady in there for a while, it seems," Donald said as he drove me back to my apartment. "That is, until you gave everyone chlamydia. So how did everyone feel about that?”

"No one liked me when they figured out it was me givin' them the chowder-pants. All my girlfriends wanted to beat me up. They had to lock me away for having too much sex, but also to protect me from people who said they were my friends."

"So, the reason people started to hate you was all rooted in side-effects of your own popularity. That's some irony, Lady."

"I don’t think so," I told Donald. "There was no iron involved. Couldn't taste it, at least. I know what it tastes like. Tastes like blood."

"That's... That's not what irony is."

"I don't know what irony is, Donald, and I don’t care," I said. "Don't waste my time."

I got back to my apartment just as I had left it thirty months earlier. It was a little smelly, pretty dirty, empty glass bottles were all over the place, my dishes were still piled up in the sink needing a good bath, and the only difference was that a family of bloated, hungry rats had made their home in my bathroom. I didn’t find out about this right away, though. After I realized my cable was shut off and I didn’t have any power or running water, I went out to find a payphone I could use to call the telephone, power, water, and cable companies to turn on my stuff.

While I was out, I thought I’d go have some good, real-world food that wasn’t from the floor of a prison. I went to Spickwick’s Pizza and got myself a 22 inch pizza with all kinds of fat meat and stinky cheese all over it. I ate the whole thing. In jail I’d trained my bowels to move only once every 6 days. It wasn’t hard, since the food was designed to make this possible.  I got up to leave the pizza place, farted on a nice looking couple as they walked in, and ran away yelling about how that gas would live with them through their whole meal. Hahah! I was such a silly girl. Right out of jail and ready to be free again!

As I slept that night, my insides were at war. My bowels had been trained to not push anything out of me until I commanded it. Old food inside of my guts was finding it difficult to share its home with the huge pizza I had eaten hours earlier, and pushed warning gas through my sphincter as a sign that there was indeed trouble brewing below ground. My nostrils were accustomed to normal fart smells, because it was something I learned to do on command while in solitary confinement, to entertain myself. I was at the point in my life where the smell of my own farts only made me hungry, caused me to yearn for the delights of a home-cooked meal with all the grease and starch we were missing out on in prison. My farts reminded me of real food.

But the farts my sphincter was allowing out of my turd factory were harbingers of catastrophe. The smell awoke me in a panic, and I could feel the gaseous equilibrium inside of me approaching its limits. I rushed from bed, into the bathroom and flipped on the light switch as I threw my panties against the wall. I sat on the toilet and unleashed a mudslide of preposterous poo and a chocolate chunk river all over that toilet bowl’s mouth. But as this was happening, I heard the unmistakable squeal of a nest of angry rats. I was a bit startled, but had to finish my business. I had at least 5 days of stool packed up inside of my anal atrium, and it smelt of fetid decay.

As I squirted out the final touches of my stool of stool, I felt the flesh of my butt cheek tear apart. I jumped from the toilet seat screaming in pain as blood bubbled out of my shit-splattered butt cheeks. I looked into the toilet to see a family of rats covered in my shit, angry as snake-handlers on Halloween. They crawled out from the toilet to show me they were much larger than I could have imagined. Each of the four rats were at least two feet long. Two of them snarled at each other as they played in my feces and ate it happily. The other two, the more fierce of the family, stared me down, letting me know they’d bite again if forced. I swore I heard one of them roar at me.

I ran crying and screaming from the bathroom and powdered some sugar and salt on my bottom, to dry up the still-wet fecal slime coating that caked my buttocks. It dried and crusted up in no time, so I threw on a pair of pants and ran from my home while the two angry rats scuttled along after me, apparently attracted to the sounds of my cries.

I made it to the streets, shuffling along the sidewalk with tears of fear pouring from my eyes and two large rats not far behind. New Yorkers on a midnight stroll expressed more than a little discontent with my behavior, making faces of total confusion and hate when I ran past. The rats startled plenty of annoyed onlookers, but no one offered to help me. I could feel the snaps of the rat teeth on my ankles and heels as I ran, shoe-less, in some arbitrary direction that I just hoped would take me to safety. It was a midnight nightmare in New York, happening in my waking life. I hadn’t even been out of prison for one full day and was already being attacked by toilet rats from my own home.

There was a church only one block from my apartment, so I ran to it hoping it would be open and welcoming to a shit-covered young adult being chased by rats. I clambered my way up the steps and threw myself into the door, hoping it would be open. It was not. I fell to the ground in a daze while the rats jumped on me and … didn’t bite me. The huge, fecal-splattered rodents sat on my stomach for a minute, looking me in the eyes. I didn’t dare move, because I didn’t want to get more rabies in my blood than I knew I probably already had. What the rats did instead of bite me and tear me to pieces was shit on me. They shit all over me, into my belly-button, down into my pants, crawled under my clothes and shat between my tits, before finally both crawling onto my face and shitting in my eyes. One rat bit me on the nose, which produced a scream from my mouth which was only their strategy to get my mouth open so they could shit into my mouth. They dropped their disease-ridden rat shit down my throat and I gagged and vomited all over myself while they continued their defecation rituals on my poor, aching body. This nightmare was never-ending, unrelenting, tireless and horrifying.

It wasn’t that I puked because there was shit in my mouth. I’d been used to that. Even this rat shit which tasted of plagues and sewage wasn’t too awful for my sophisticated taste-buds. But the sheer amount and mass of the rat feces, paired with the awkward angle at which they shat, made it go down wrong and fill up my throat the wrong way.

I awoke many hours later inside the church, with a minister standing above me.

“Where am I?” I asked.

“Church,” the minister said.

“OK.”

It felt a bit cold, which I realized was because I was naked. I had been bathed in a tub of water and could hardly see any shit on my body.

“What happened?” I tried to ask.

“Shhh…” he whispered. He had his eyes closed and was sprinkling some kind of dust on my body.

“What’s this for?”

“Shhh…”

“Can I –“

“Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

I sat there in the tub and didn’t really move for the next half hour while he stood there silently doing things like dropping dust on me, waving feathers over my head, and swirling candles around my breasts.

He walked over beside my head, knelt down and kissed me three times on the cheek. “Three kisses from Christ.”

“Thanks,” I exclaimed. “Can I go, now?”

He said nothing and pulled a plug, which drained all the water from the tub. He handed me a small washcloth with which I was expected to dry myself. I did that, and he offered me a white gown to put on. I put it on.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Time to pray,” he answered. “God would like us to pray to him right now. Will you pray with me?”

“I’m supposed to go to work today, I need to know what time it is.”

“I already told you what time it is. Pray time.”

“Pray tell you tell me the time of day?”

“It’s around 8 o’clock,” he said.

“Oh fuck, I have to be at work!” I shouted. I ran toward the door and told him he could keep my old clothes, wherever they were.

“Language like that is going to keep you out of Heaven!” he yelled at me. “Ungrateful cunt.”

I got to work, wearing the white robe, and apologized to no one for being late. It was my first day back in 6 months so I didn’t think it would be noticed. It was noticed, however, and Donald came to find me when I was on my lunch break, while I was brushing my teeth clean of my lunch and my midnight snack of rat poop.

“Lady, I’ve been thinking about how you make my company look,” he said. “You’re a funny person to have around, everyone here loves to laugh at you, not with you. But when we have business meetings and CEO’s come in here from all over the world and see you mopping our floors with your disgusting hair, it’s just not a desirable sight for anyone.”

“Mr. Donald,” I said, “I only do what you told me to do. I love being your floor mop, it pays my bills and keeps me busy and off the streets. I’m not doing drugs anymore, and my sexual deviancy has reduced greatly.”

“That’s another thing I wanted to talk to you about. You’re a sex offender, now. And I don’t mean you’re a 20 year old boy who fucked a 16 year old girl, I mean you’re a hardcore, disgusting, animal-fucking, shit-eating, duct-taping whore who has violated just about every conceivable law of nature and man concerning sexual conduct. I can’t run this company and still take myself seriously if I let you work for me.”

“What are you saying?” I asked.

“You’re fired.”

“I’ll suck your dick,” I made sure he was clear that I would do whatever it took to regain his respect.

“Keep your mouth far away from my dick,” he warned. “Sorry to do this, Lady. You’re fired – but you’ll receive a severance package, which continues 4 months of pay. Someone with your… talents should be able to find another job out there with little difficulty. Now give me your clothes.”

“What? This robe is mine. No, it’s not even mine. It was given to me.”

“I don’t care. Part of being fired by me means I want to see your humiliation. You need to walk home naked. I’ll have this shipped to your apartment so you can have it back. Give it to me.”

I stripped down, out of my white robe, and handed it to Donald. I turned and sadly walked my way out of his massive corporate headquarters and onto the dirty streets of New York City.

Here I was again, face to face with a larger than life city of dreams and opportunity, fresh off the shit-end of a bad deal. At least this time I wouldn’t have to resort to sleeping on the streets and scavenging for food. Being naked made it easy to get a taxi, so I hailed one and headed back to my apartment. As I was nude and had no money on me, I paid my fare in blowjobs, as I was accustomed to doing. But before I entered my apartment I remembered my rat problem, and decided that sleeping on the streets might not be such a bad idea. It would be just like old times, sleeping under the stars in a smelly city of unfriendliness and bitterness. My social skills could use some work, I thought. Being in solitary confinement for 2 and a half years meant that I was eager for social interaction and sexual adventure. I also decided that as a hardened convict, I wasn’t going to take this shit from the rats living in my toilet. I stormed up into my apartment to take back what was mine.

I walked into my apartment to find two rats at my kitchen table, eating cereal, and two others on my couch reading magazines. They were all cleaned up and didn’t look very angry anymore. The rats on my couch looked up at me, one tilting his head forward to gaze at me over the top of his spectacles neatly adorning his little rat face.

“Huh…” I gasped.

“Don’t just stand there,” one of the rats said. “Come on in, put some clothes on, get comfortable.”

I didn’t argue with him, and did just what he said. I found my clothes in my dresser drawers just as I had left them, wadded up into piles. I put some clothes on and walked over to the couch. “So, you guys live here now, huh?”

“For the time being,” the rat said. “We don’t mean to be rude. I’m Oscar, this is my girlfriend Claudia,” he looked at the rat sitting beside him, reading my old supermarket tabloids I’d kept in a woven basket. “The young ones in there, eating you cereal, that’s Eugene on the left and Leviathan on the right.”

“Sorry about last night,” Claudia the rat said. She set the magazine down on the table in front of her.

“Me too,” I said. “I didn’t know you guys were living in my toilet.”

“Oh, we don’t live in there,” Oscar said. “We sleep in there. We didn’t know you had come back to live here, so we were still making this place our home. Sorry that we reacted so harshly to your habits, we just weren’t used to being pooped on by humans.”

Oscar and Claudia chuckled a bit.

I stood there, nodding my head. “Your family seems kind of nice, really. You guys can stay here if you like, but I might have to be leaving soon because I just lost my job.”

“Oh my, I’m sorry to hear that, honey,” Claudia said. “Where did you work?”

“Worked for Donald Trump. I was his floor mop.”

“Oh my, hear that kids?” Oscar shouted. “We got a big business woman living with us!”

The two rats in the kitchen snarled and yelped and made sounds very much unlike anything a rat would normally sound like.

“So…” I said. “How is it that you guys can talk?”

“Oh dear, we can’t talk,” Claudia said.

“How are we talking, then?” I asked.

“I’m afraid that’s just a side affect of the rabies,” Oscar explained. “See, last night when we bit you, we probably gave you rabies. We’ve all got it. We rats, though, we just ignore it. It’s almost like it’s recessive to us. We have it but it doesn’t really matter. We go on.”

“Uh… so I have rabies?” I asked.

“Sure do,” said Claudia. “The rabies is entangling with your nervous system right now, so you think you’re talking to us and having a conversation when we’re really not talking at all.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Are you real, then?”

“We’re very real,” said Oscar. “Real enough to give you rabies, haha, right honey?”

Claudia laughed.

“This makes no sense. I suppose I need to see a doctor, right?”

“Whatever you think is best,” Oscar said. “If you need to sleep or anything the bed is right through… oh, well I guess you know where it is, don’t you? This is your home after all.”

Instead of calling a doctor right away I ran into my bedroom and shut the door. “Rabies? Dammit. Maybe I can sleep this off. Worked for King James XXX, it’ll work for me.”

I ran to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of tequila and took two sleeping pills. “If you guys, or you rats, need me, I’ll be sleeping and hoping this is just a bad dream so I can wake up tomorrow and still have a job and not rabies. You can find me in the bed.”

“Alright, Lady,” said Claudia. “Sleep well!”

I retreated to my room, closed the door, and downed 6 shots of tequila before I passed out on the floor, a good 10 feet from the bed. Maybe when I woke up the rabies, talking rats, and unemployment would all be gone. Well, I kind of liked the rats now that they could talk. They were much more friendly. Oh well. They would hopefully end up only being terrible elements of devastating nightmares, and nothing more.

Chapter 10. Doctors and Werewolfism

If anyone’s ever told you that you can sleep off rabies, they’re wrong. Odds are good that they were knowingly wrong, and told you this so you’d not bother to get any proper medical treatment and you’d die. My point is anyone who has told you that it’s possible to cure your case of rabies by sleeping it off only wants to see you die. If and when your parents tell you this, they’re no longer good parents. When your friends tell you this, you need to buy new friends. When your boss tells you this, you should quit your job. When your doctor tells you this, you should reflect deeply on your life so you can pinpoint exactly what it was that made this medical professional despise you so much that he risked his entire career by giving you life-threatening advice.

I didn’t have any friends, family or bosses to give me advice on what to do about my rabies, so I sought the help of a doctor. New York doctors are very good. They all went to Yale, or Princeton, or Harvard and still have the haircuts to prove it. I found my doctor by using a phone book. It mentioned that he went to Yale, or Princeton, or Harvard, so I went to see him. His name was Dr. Johnson. Dr. Diarrhea Johnson.

He seemed to be concerned about my condition after I explained my hallucinations of talking rats. I assured him the rats were real, but was 50% certain the talking was just in my head. He said he was 100% certain the talking was just in my head, and I said that must be some kind of cocky intellectual elitism they teach at Harvard, or Yale, or Princeton. He scoffed at that remark, and so I sneakily wrote down the word “scoff” on my hand with one of his pens so I could look it up when I got home, assuming I had a dictionary (I didn’t. Still don’t). I thought his scoffing was rude, and told him. He said he thought my sassy attitude was a little unnecessary since he was only trying to help me. I apologized and let him continue doing what it is that doctors do (they don’t do anything, they just sit there and ask you questions). He asked me questions about my medical history, which I told him I didn’t know the answers to because I hadn’t been to see a doctor in about 10 years.

I told him briefly about my exodus from Los Angeles with as few details as possible, and how I made my way to New York with my boyfriend at the time years earlier. He seemed more interested in my life in LA than in my rabies, probing deeper into what I did while I was out there. I hinted that I may or may not have been a stripper by telling him “I may or may not have been a stripper.”

He looked me up and down for a minute. For a whole minute I thought he was going to rape me and give me a pap smear I didn’t need, smack me on the butt and then send me home. He didn’t do that, but he asked me about where I worked when I was stripping. I told him I forgot the name of the place.

“It wasn’t called…. Appledance, was it?” he asked.

My heart sank into my stomach in some kind of realization. I didn’t know what I was realizing, because it didn’t seem like there really was anything to realize except that this man or may not have known where I worked as a stripper. And by that I mean he knew. Somehow, he knew.

“Could have been,” I lied. “I don’t remember.”

He mumbled something and looked me over. He then told me, “Well, Lady, you look fine to me. Go home and get some rest, the rabies should clear right up in no more than 24 hours. Drink some water, if you must.”

I thanked him and left his office. I took the bus back to my apartment and walked inside.

Oscar and Claudia were sitting on the couch, eating popcorn and watching Dick Tracey on my TV.

“What’d the doctor say?” Oscar asked.

“Didn’t say much,” I shared. “Just told me to get some sleep and drink some water.”

Oscar and Claudia looked at each other and set down their popcorn.

“Lady,” Claudia said. “I don’t think you saw a very good doctor.”

“What? Why?”

“Lady, that’s not going to cure your rabies. We rats, we sleep and drink all the time. We’ve still got it. We’re always going to. If sleep and water cured rabies, we wouldn’t have it right now and neither would you.”

“He went to Harvard,” I explained. “He’s a good doctor.”

“Honey, he went to Harvard,” Oscar said to Claudia.

“I’ve never heard of Harvard,” she said.

“Nor have I,” Oscar said, looking back at me like he was disappointed in me.

“You’re a bunch of fucking rats,” I shouted.  “You don’t know anything about schools or doctors!”

“Excuse me!” Oscar shouted. “There are children present.”

The two young rats, Eugene and Leviathan, were in the kitchen fighting over 3 year-old sausage they’d found in my refrigerator. From the looks of my kitchen floor, those two rats had fought over every single item of food I’d had in my house since I went away to jail. Rotten, molded, bug-covered cereal, potato chips, cookies, ice cream, cakes, fruit, bread, applesauce, noodles, rice, chicken baskets, hamburger meat, and all varieties of sauce were all over the counter tops, the walls, the table, and the floor of the kitchen. Ripped open bottles of soda and milk were spilled on the floor. I hadn’t gone in there since I’d been out of jail. I had pretty much decided it was Eugene and Leviathan’s playground now and that I should find a new place to keep my food.

I excused myself, and continued. “He wouldn’t tell me stuff that was wrong. Doctors don’t tell wrong. Doctors aren’t wrong. You don’t know anything, rats.”

“Calm down, Lady,” Claudia said softly. “We’re only trying to help.  Oscar here thinks you should go get a second opinion.”

Oscar looked at me and nodded. “I sure do think that. Thanks Claudia. Love you.”

“Love you, too, honey,” she said. They rat kissed.

I made a gagging noise to show my disgust to them. It was just awkward, because I didn’t have anyone there to kiss me on the lips in front of them.

“Hush, Lady, or we’ll gnaw at your ankles while you sleep,” Oscar said. “The kids love good ankle meat.”

I hushed. Then I sat down on a chair that had never been in my apartment before, and didn’t belong to me, but had conveniently appeared there so that I might sit on it. I sat, and continued to ask the rats for advice.     

After an hour of spelling games and crossword puzzles, I stood back up to go see another doctor.

“He told me to just sleep it off. He said it would be fine.”

“That’s very strange. I know Dr. Johnson and he knows better than that. He’s a good doctor, pretty good at doctoring.”

I was in the office of a different doctor, now. His name was Dr. Jackson. Dr. Diarrhea Jackson. I explained my situation and that I needed his second, expert opinion.

“It’s funny that you both have the same first name,” I said. “Are you guys brothers?”

“Is that some kind of racist remark?” he asked. “Johnson and I are not related, not by a long shot. He was raised in the Pamaladian suburbs while I was raised in the Denumultier valley, easily 4 miles separate. We met at a fishing outpost during Vietnam as medics. He was buying worms, I was buying fish maps for the infiltration fleet. He said he could show me all the hot fishing spots in the rivers without a map and that he’d memorized every fish’s name in the entire country of Vietnam. I thought he meant the names of the fish species, but he meant their Christian names. I was impressed. We started fishing together a lot, and I took him back to my infiltration fleet to meet the guys. They liked him, they approved of our friendship. Our fishing trips were getting pretty long, pretty satisfying. We caught all kinds of fish, made lots of friends with animals. We told each other stories about the war, and then we remembered we were still in the war. The war was happening not far from where we were fishing, and usually we were supposed to be on missions while we were sitting in boats, yanking fish out of the water.

“We had had enough of the war for a while. On one of our trips he turned to me and told me he had a serious and important question to ask me. He asked me if I’d go back to America with him, and go to Harvard with him for medical school. I told him I’d love to. So we moved back to America while the war was carrying on, and attended Harvard University to get our medical degrees. Have you heard of Harvard University?”

“Don’t believe I have,” I said. I was lying. I had heard of it.

“Nice place. Anyway, we got our degrees and started being doctors. What a hoot! Doctoring is so much better than warring. I’ve told all my kids that if they can either be doctors or go to war, they should try to be doctors because it’s safer. Do you believe that?”

“Incredible!” I said. I was very excited, because this was a great story and I wanted to hear more of it.

“So that brings me to here. Here we are, today, sitting in my office. I haven’t talked to Diarrhea Johnson in a few weeks, but I know he’s got his head on right. He must have not liked you if he said you could just sleep off your rabies.”

“So what should I do?” I asked.

“I’ll fix you right up, Lady.”

And he did. Diarrhea Jackson fixed me up real good. I went through some expensive treatment and took some expensive medicine and got blasted with ice-cold water for 22 hours a day every day of the week, but it finally worked. My rabies was gone. Dr. Jackson said I’d have to cut myself with pure silver for the next month so I wouldn’t turn into a werewolf, and gave me a serrated blade made of silver. He said I could do it in the privacy of my own bedroom, preferably in front of a mirror with black lipstick on. I told him I’d do whatever it took to keep my rabies gone.

“I’ll talk to Diarrhea,” Dr. Jackson said. “I’ll see what’s up with him and why he gave you misinformation. That could get him fired, and he knows it. That’s just not like him.”

After the rabies treatment had finished, I had time to sit around at home, uninterrupted by day-long treatments, being sprayed by cold water. The rats no longer spoke to me, and carried on about their rat-business as normal rats would. I was saddened to have no one to talk to, and spent a fair amount of time writing poetry in my bedroom with the door closed while they ate my food and watched my TV and read my magazines. The only thing I had in my bedroom was my radio, which either the rats hadn’t discovered yet, or just hadn’t figured out how to use. I thought it would be good to hear the music that had been coming out in the last two and a half years, since I went to jail. I heard nothing while I was in jail, and now I’d feel like I had stepped into the future!

I turned my radio on one night while I was cutting myself with the silver blade, as a blood sacrifice to the gods to prevent werewolfism. The sounds I heard from my speakers were futuristic indeed, and I was instantly kicked in the head by the blazing cosmic riffs of great supernatural forces I suspected might be the initial onset of the very werewolfism I was trying hard to prevent. Werewolfism this was not. Instead, it was the sound of the classic rock n roll band we all know so well today, but I was discovering for the first time in June of 1993 – Spin Doctors. The song was “Two Princes”, and I thought the lyrics were written specifically with me in mind. I had to find these doctors of spin.

As I finished cutting myself and the song faded away to the voice of the radio DJ, Oscar opened the door to my room.

“Spin Doctors, “ he said. “Love ‘em.”

I wiped up the blood from my carpet and said, “you can still talk? Shit. I thought my rabies was cured.” I fumbled around with the blood-wipes and dropped the knife in a fit of surprise and anger.

“Oh, it’s cured and gone, I’m sure,” Oscar replied. “It wasn’t the rabies that made us talk to you, Lady. It was something else entirely!” He swooped his little rat arms up above his head to give his words a larger-than-life appeal, but that appeal was diminished when the phone rang. I’d forgotten I had a telephone so the sound terrified me.

I ran to the kitchen, stepped over dead bugs, disgusting piles of garbage and rotten food, and two rat children swimming in a puddle of mustard to grab the phone. “Hello?” I answered, curiously.

“Lady,” the voice on the other end said, “this is Diarrhea Jackson. Doctor Diarrhea Jackson.”

“Oh, hello Diarrhea!”

“I spoke to my colleague and best friend, Diarrhea Johnson.”

“Oh, ok.”

“He had something very interesting to tell me. It seems… well, hmm… he was not happy to hear that you were still alive. He was even more unhappy to hear that I had treated you and even given you further measures to prevent the certain side-effects of rabies that would be werewolfism.”

“Oh… really?”

“It seems… uh… well, um, let me ask you this. Do you know a girl by the name of Barbalay?”

My nipples spun in erotic fashion, and I answered, “yes… yes I do. That is a name I have not heard in a long time. Why do you ask?”

“Well, Lady… this sounds silly to me. Barbalay is Diarrhea Johnson’s niece, and he says she’s in jail right now, out in California. He said she’s in jail for murder.”

My nipples continued to spin, as I didn’t see how this had anything to do with me. I remained silent.

“Says she’s innocent. The way her story goes, she was falsely accused of murdering a woman a few years back. She was found with a dead body in a public restroom, in some club in L.A.. To this day she says her friend named Lady killed the woman in some accidental bout of anger and rage. But she never knew Lady’s last name. She’s been in prison for 4 years, now, for supposedly murdering this woman. She says her Lady friend skipped town and she hadn’t seen her or heard from her since. Cops don’t buy it, judges don’t buy it. Her family seems to be supporting her, though. Seems… her uncle, Diarrhea Johnson, figured it was you who made his niece go to jail. Like I said, sounds a bit strange, right? What do you think about this?”

“That definitely sounds like bullshit, to me,” I said, and slammed the phone down.

My nipples had stopped spinning and my heart was now racing. My ancient murder, my life’s biggest secret, was threatening to expose itself! It had already exposed itself, just a bit, like a trench-coat-wearing alcoholic running through an elementary school showing off his penis and letting his balls bounce with each galloping step he takes. My big secret was pulling its trench-coat open and flashing its freshly shaven dick at the world, squeezing its scrotum in just the right way to make the testicles appear more bulbous than ever.

“Who was that?” Claudia asked.

Oscar was now standing in the kitchen. “I was going to explain to you why we can talk to you, Lady!” he exclaimed excitedly.

“It was no one,” I told Claudia. “Total bullshit, is what it was. I never killed anyone.”

“Never said you did, dear,” Claudia responded.

“No… right. I know. I… have to go,” I said. By “go” I meant I had to run into my room, lock the door, jump into the bed and pull the covers over my head, and blast my radio in hopes that more Spin Doctors songs would come on to wash away the cruel truths of the world around me. I only had to wait a few minutes, because my second favorite Spin Doctors song in the world – a distinction I made right at that moment – came on the radio and carried me away to a place where reality couldn’t touch me, not even with its big, fat, wretchedly exposed cock of truth.

Chapter 11. Ready to Blast Out into Oblivion

I'd spent the last 4 years of my life pretending that I wasn't a murderer. Life had been plenty enjoyable in New York while using my head as a floor mop, letting men explore my body like it was the final frontier and the possibility of finding gold was greater than the possibility of finding ticks inside Prince's milk mustache, and violating the taboos of our proud society left and right. My life was a fountain of pleasure and no murder haunting my past was going to change that, so I told myself.

Since I'm not a rude person, and it would have been rude to pretend I didn't know Barbalay was now in jail because of something I had done, I looked her up and sent her a box of eggs. I couldn't remember if Barbalay liked to cook, but if she had, a box of eggs would have been a great gift to serve as a reminder of the finer things in the life of a free woman. Seeing as how she wasn't free, eggs would surely make her feel like she was. I've always equated eggs with freedom for some reason. Eggs and pubic hair. The pubic hair relation was obvious, as it was the shaving and strategic use of my own which allowed me to escape the closet prison of my parents' home so many years ago. Eggs, I thought, probably are seen as a symbol of freedom to most oppressed people. Barbalay would probably appreciate the gesture, and no longer have any sour feelings toward me.

Other than to mail that package, I didn't leave my room for days. I could hear the rats outside of my door chatting it up like there was some loose gossip going around about me being a murderer, or a prostitute, or a child molester. They were saying something, I just didn't know what it was. Oscar would scratch at my door a couple of times a day and ask if he could speak to me about something very important.

My reply was always the same: "I never killed anyone!" Cutting myself just didn't feel right at the time, so I didn't bother with the silver blade and couldn't have cared less about the onset of werewolfism. Fuck rabies, right? I managed to feed myself throughout the next few days by eating wallpaper and carpet glue, finding them to be more delicious than the rusted toilet handles I'd frequently licked in prison to absorb nutrients I wasn't getting from my food. Leaving my bedroom wasn't an option. The phone would ring a couple of times a day, but a ringing phone and yelling rats weren't enough to get me to leave that room. If hiding out in my bed was what it would take to make the terror of the world of justice leave me alone, and the wretched possibilities of dealing with difficult decisions dwindle away, that's what I would do. On my dresser were sitting neatly framed pictures of me smiling, riding horses and playing a game of frisbee with dogs. Staring longingly into these pictures was the key to my being uplifted, and reminded me that somewhere in my rotten heart there was the capacity for joy. My only problem was the thick mucky dread that was surrounding that heart.

Falling in love on a submarine voyage was always something I wanted to have happen to me, but I didn't see how it was going to happen if my life kept - I'm sorry. I've lost myself and mixed up my time line a bit. Let me get back to the matter being discussed. I'll return to the submarine romance in proper chronology.

With uneasy hands, I tried to write a letter to Barbalay to tell her how sorry I was that she was in jail for something she didn't do. Or did she do it? For all I knew, she had murdered someone immediately after I left and that was why she was in jail. Aside from the fact that Diarrhea Jackson claimed that Diarrhea Johnson claimed that Barbalay claimed that I was the one responsible for the murder she was convicted of, I had no reason to think that the woman I murdered was the reason for Barbalay's imprisonment. And even if it was that woman's death who put Barbalay in jail, I had been to jail before. A few times, in fact. You could say that I had already done my time. I said that. To me, justice had already been served.

And besides, jail wasn't so bad. I learned about candy canes and peppermints in jail, and made a bunch of friends through the special bonding that peppermint sharing provides. I figured Barbalay had probably made a million friends by this point. And with all of these new friends, she sure didn't need me butting in to try to 'apologize' to her for 'murdering' someone for which she was 'wrongly convicted' and 'imprisoned' as a result of my 'bad decisions' and 'irresponsible actions'. We'd both moved on with our lives, made new friends, and burned bridges left and right. I stopped trying to write the letter and turned on my radio.

Again the pleasant noise of Spin Doctors filled my room, robbing every bit of my attention and spitting in the face of my worries of some kind of retribution. I knew retribution wouldn't come from Barbalay. She was in jail. There was no way she'd be able to get back at me for one little mistake. It was the sound of the Spin Doctors that gave me the strength to get off my bed, spit the carpet and wallpaper out of my mouth, and march out of my room.

Oscar and Claudia were sitting on the couch, the only place I ever knew them to sit, and both turned to look at me as soon as they heard me walk out of my room.

"Oh good Glory!" Oscar shouted. "You're still alive, Lady!" Did I ever mention that Oscar had the most barbaric Australian accent? Well, he did. He sounded like a dirty rat version of Crocodile Dundee, and as nice as he was, every time he spoke to me I wanted to put a hot glue gun into his head and fill his rat brains with molten, burning glue.

"We thought you'd killed yourself, what with all the silence going on in there!" Claudia exclaimed enthusiastically. Did I ever mention that Claudia had a standard Brooklyn accent? Well, she did. God, she sounded like an idiot.

For reasons I didn't know, I was pretty annoyed by the rat family living in my apartment. They were always friendly, always helpful. I'm just sort of a cunt. "I'm alive," I said. "Sure could use some food, but it looks like your kids ate everything I have and are still in my kitchen eating the fuck out of boxes and paper and wood and shit. What the fuck is up with rat kids?"

Ignoring my question and possibly unwarranted attack on his kids, Oscar replied, "we were going to give it another day, and if you didn't come out of there we were all going to run in there and feast on your corpse".

"Indeed we were," Claudia chimed. "We rats love a good carcass feast!"

"Lady, now that you're alive and no longer throwing a hissy-fit and hiding in your room, I wanted to talk to you about something I tried to bring up a little while ago." Oscar was getting on my nerves.

"I need some food," I said.

"It concerns our talking to you. You no doubt find it a little strange that we can still speak with you after your rabies has been cured. Well, there's a perfectly good reason for this that I think you'll find rather humorous, if you just sit down and let me tell you."

"No time," I said. "Gotta eat." I grabbed my purse, or what I called a purse (part of a potato sack with my wallet in it) off the floor by a closet, and ran out the door. I was hungry, sure. But the real reason I left was because I was tired of hearing a couple rats talk to me, and even more tired of being in my apartment for days at a time. My life was going to shit. It was as if my life had been consumed by a giant, and was now sitting in the guts of that giant being turned into giant shit, slowly being loaded through the intestines, into the colon, ready to blast out into oblivion.

It was a hot June day, and I strolled the streets realizing I was getting tired of New York City and the uppity attitudes of the cultured people and the artsy people and the intelligent people and the people with jobs. I still hadn't tried to find a new job, but I didn't really need to since I'd be getting paid for 4 months. I would just wait until all of that money ran out and then start looking for something. I could think of no better idea than that. That was it - the tip top peak of my mental capabilities had just been reached and possibly breached by this grand concept. I could be a bum for four months and get paid.

I walked to a record store and bought my own copy of the Spin Doctors' CD "Pocket Full of Kryptonite", which had my favorite songs in the world on it. When I was at the check out, paying for the CD in quarters and nickels, the handsome young stud with a lip ring and a cool tattoo on his arm started talking to me about music. There was nothing I could say in response, since I didn't listen to any music other than Spin Doctors.

"That Radiohead CD is pretty dank, right?" he asked.

"No clue," I said.

"Pablo Honey, man. Check it out." He pulled a copy of it off the table behind him and slid it over to me, while he continued to count my quarters and nickels.

I didn't respond.

"You know, Nirvana's working on a new one, too," he said. "Should be goddamn great."

"If it's not Spin Doctors I don't give a fuck or a shit!" I yelled into his face.

He was a little startled by this, I guess, and said: "OK... sorry. You know they're from NYC, right? They're playing a show in a couple nights."

"Radiohead or Nirvana or Spin Doctors?" I asked.

"Spin Doctors," he said.

I yelled "holy shit!" at him and developed a spontaneous case of fecal incontinence right there at the record store, and shat all over myself. The excitement and shock radiating from my face and throat were matched by the equal amounts of excrement falling out of my other end. It was not a silent shitting, and the boy jumped out of his chair and yelled back at me.

"What the fuck? ARE YOU SHITTING ON THE FLOOR?" he yelled.

"I AM SHITTING IN MY SHORTS, SIR!" I yelled back.

"OH MY GOD!"

"OHHH MYYY GODDDDDD!" I screeched in volcanic orgasm. "MY SPIN DOCTORS ARE IN NEW YORK CITY!"

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE STORE!" the boy demanded. He threw the CD at my head and told me to "just leave".

I held the CD to my breast and ran from the store while the poop plopped out of my shorts and onto my shoes and the ground behind me. I ran to a hot dog stand and bought five chili dogs, paying this time in pennies. The woman at the hot dog stand watched the shit drip down my legs and asked me if I needed help. I told her the only help I needed was her chili dogs and that she'd better hurry up if she didn't want a vagina full of fist. I got my chili dogs and waddled away to a bench to eat them while gazing at my beautiful Spin Doctors album.

When I'd finished the chili dogs I decided to head home so I could listen to this CD a hundred and fifty times before I went to bed. I was on the verge of another anal-vaginal orgasm as I walked, imagining seeing the Spin Doctors in person. As if it were my fate, I ran into a telephone pole which had a flyer stapled to it. What was on the flyer? Just an advertisement for the SPIN DOCTORS playing a show on the following Friday! If there had been any shit left inside of me, it all would have sprayed out of me then, because my sphincter lost its control and opened the gate wide for anything and anyone to pass freely to and fro.

I ripped the flyer off the pole and stuffed it into my pockets. I continued to waddle my way home.

A block from my house, at what was usually a homeless shelter and soup kitchen, there were  a few people out front taking donations for some kind of cause. Being in such high spirits, I asked them what they were collecting for. The smell of my poop must have disgusted them, but they seemed to think I was homeless. They suggested I go inside to get some food and to sleep there if I needed to. I told them I didn't need their beds because I shared a home with rats and was fond of disease. Then, probably only to humor me, they told me they were collecting money for starving children in Africa.

"Perfect!" I said excitedly. "I love Africa, and I love children!"

"If you would like to donate, you may," one man said to me.

"Do you guys feed them? Feed the kids in Africa? The starving kids? Do you feed them?"

"Yes, ma'am. We use all donations to help supply them with food, education, shelter, clothing and medical attention."

"I don't have any money because I just bought this Spin Doctors CD," I showed them the CD, and told them they could pass it around if they wanted to. No one wanted to because they were faggots, I suspected.

"Well, we'll be here for the next week, so if you pass by again you can donate something if you wish."

"You guys have soup buckets?" I asked.

"What do you mean?" a woman asked me.

"Buckets to serve soup from, you got them?"

"No, I don't think we do," a man replied.

"I got some food I could share with the kids, since I'm in such a fruity mood right now," I informed the man. "You gimme a box or a can or a bucket, and I'll give you the food."

The men and women looked at one another and discussed whether or not they could even do this. After a moment they said something.

"We can't take food from individuals, only money," one woman said.

"Fine, I'll just give you the food and you decide who to feed it to," I said. Then I puked into their box full of coins and bills. The chili dogs I'd just eaten hadn't even begun to digest, and still smelled mostly like chili dogs, but with some stomach acid and mucous.

The men and women let out gasps and two men began shoving me, telling me to leave. I was tired of trying to play nice and give to charity, so I left.

At home, I listened to the Spin Doctors CD on endless repeat, fingered myself to the sound of the singer's voice, and brushed my pubic hair in rhythm with the funky, jamming drums that brought life to my soul. I'd need my pubes to be up to par if I was going to see these men in person. Didn't want my bush to embarrass me when it should have been impressing them. Didn't want to be disabled when I should be enabled. My bedroom door was locked, and Oscar kept scratching it so I'd let him in. He wanted to talk to me really badly, but I had no interest. My only interest that night was the Spin Doctors and finding new objects in my bedroom to fit into myself. On the fifth cycle of the album playing, I went into the bathroom to let the bathtub faucet penetrate my vagina while I pulled the curtain rod down and slowly crammed it into my skunk junk (my ass). I kept my eyes closed through the duration of the album and imagined that the curtain rod was the one half of the band, and the tub faucet the other half, and that they were giving me a violent gang-banging to the sound of their own music.

When my dear song "Two Princes" came on, I turned on the hot water and let it scald the inside of my vagina walls, flooding it as I came. Part of the shower curtain became lodged inside of my rectum walls, and I was now clogged up from both ends. I just needed something to fill my mouth while my ears were forcefully fucked by the sounds from my stereo. My existence was an existence so shallow that this was a perfectly great way to spend my night. I arched my body such that I could fit my mouth onto the drain of the bathtub, and swirled my tongue around the metal that caught all the hair and filth from my showers. My pubes, as well as clumps of my fallen out hair dried together by old shampoo and soap were stuck in the drain. As I let myself be fucked by the faucet and the curtain rod, I tongue fucked this hair-pie drain pit and twirled my tongue into the nest of greasy, knotted, stringy hair, letting it wrap around my tongue and slip between my teeth.

I gagged a fair number of times, choked enough to cut off most of the oxygen to my brain, and kept cumming like a robot programmed for fuck. This was heaven, and the angels sharing it with me were the Spin Doctors, messengers of the Holy pleasures, which rained into my body and clogged me at every opening. All of my worries of Barbalay and my dread of unemployment and my fears of an utterly meaningless and laughable life were overshadowed by the visceral treats flowing through me. The music lifted my soul, the hot water quenched my spirit's thirst, the curtain rod packed my inner self deeper and denser, and the soggy clumps of sewage-hair filled the holes in my heart. I began to quiver and shake, as my orgasms sprung forth; loss of control was imminent. Had I died there I would not have known. Had I been transported to heaven it would have been just the same.

Even the sounds of Oscar scratching my door to pieces could not interrupt the magical flow of pleasure through my veins. I squealed like a pig. My brain was being fucked. My anus and my vagina were springing leaks, bleeding, dripping juices that showed signs of pleasure and decay, and the bathtub began to fill up while my mouth remained over the drain. The tub became filled higher, and I was so carried away that I didn't pay attention to how little I could breath. I couldn't breath at all. The oxygen was no longer making its way to my brain. This was partially due at first to the gagging and choking on the disgusting hair, but now almost entirely due to the filthy and thick, chunky liquid now filling the bathtub. Consciousness slipped away while I peacefully and slowly blacked out...

Chapter 12. Ratmen

I woke up on my bedroom floor to the sounds of rats with Australian accents quibbling and quarbling (quarbling, eh?) about my condition. I was naked. There was a curtain rod protruding from my anus. My Spin Doctors CD was still playing in the background. I was coughing up water and hair, the latter of which seemed to be tied around the teeth in the back of my mouth, gagging me. This gagging led to puking. The puking seemed to do the trick and emptied my body of both hair and water, together. My mouth wasn’t the only exit for this overflow of H2O, because my vagina was leaking like a faucet, which was appropriate considering the part of my bathroom which had recently found itself nestled up inside of there like it was at summer camp.

Oscar kindly and gently pulled the rod from my anus with the help of Claudia, who kept muttering things like “oh dear”, and “goodness gracious”, and “what a deep pit of darkness her anal trench seems to be”.  As soon as it was taken out of my butt-hole, water poured from that region as well. It felt like warm diarrhea without any of the solids – just pure liquid. It was a relaxing sensation in an otherwise dreadful little circumstance.

“What happened?” I finally managed to say, after the last of the water fell from my lips. 

Oscar set down the curtain rod and walked over to stand by my head. “Lady, I just barely found you in time. I finally managed to claw through your bedroom door, only to find you unconscious in your overflowing bathtub with this curtain rod stuck inside of you, your vagina sort of suction cupped around the bath faucet, and your whole head submerged under water. Claudia and I pulled you out and dragged you over here. We thought you were dead, but you still smelled of life and warmth, not yet of raw meat which we rats are so fond of. We jumped on your stomach for a bit to pump that water out of you, seems to have done the trick.”

“What in the hell were you doing, in there?” Claudia asked me with her screeching rat-voice.

I was already embarrassed. It wasn’t going to be easy to tell them the truth, so I told a convincing lie. “I was just taking a shower.”

The rats looked at me with dark, hateful eyes. The hate didn’t seem necessary, but there it was. They weren’t convinced.

“I had an itch I couldn’t reach with hands alone, Oscar. I tried everything.”

The rats nodded, appearing to agree that I did the right thing.

“Well, stand up, Lady,” Oscar said. “You need to get some fresh air. When you’re all better and recovered, we need to talk to you about something. About talking, in fact.”

A tempest of a toot arose inside my butt and I didn’t hesitate to let it out. Hesitation would have been impossible anyway, however, because as I would soon discover, the muscles of my rectum had been so horribly torn and damaged by the curtain rod that no amount of effort on my part would allow me to hold back a fart or to hold in my own shit. The fecal incontinence of earlier in the day, it seems, would not be the last time I experienced the free roaming rivers of poop in that same day.

“Disgusting,” Claudia commented.

I hadn’t asked for her commentary. I threw on a shirt and some sweat pants and walked out of my apartment. It was nice outside, Oscar was right about the fresh air. After an hour of standing around doing nothing but soaking up some really killer fresh air, I went back inside.

“Lady, can we talk to you now?” Claudia asked.

“Fine, shoot,” I said. I sat down on the couch.

Oscar and Claudia climbed onto the table in front of the couch and sat there, which made more sense than them sitting on the couch all the time. They were rats. Why the fuck would they always be sitting on the couch, anyway?

“Lady, you’re pregnant with rats,” Oscar said. “I’ve been trying to tell you for days now, but I just have to put it out there like that. You’re pregnant with rats, because Claudia and I fucked on your bed the night that we bit you and gave you rabies. When you came home the next day and slept in your bed, you must have rolled into the glue-like rat semen that covered your sheets. How you didn’t even notice the stuff splattered all over your bed is really a mystery to us. The rabies is what first made you able to talk to us. Our rabid link connected us, it was beautiful. We wouldn’t have traded it for anything. But when your rabies was cured and we could still speak to you, Claudia realized what it must be. This isn’t anything to be alarmed about, though.”

I was alarmed. “You’re making this up”.

“He’s not making it up, Lady,” Claudia told me.

“You’re in on it, too,” I said. “You’re fucking with me because you want me to kill myself so you can have my apartment all to yourselves. Well, you know what? When I kill myself, someone else will just move in. It’s lose-lose for you fucking rats.”

“Lady, don’t speak like that,” Oscar commanded. “We don’t want you to kill yourself. What we really want is for you to come to terms with this unplanned pregnancy and to give birth to these things, should they still be alive. But Claudia thinks that with your unhealthy lifestyle and your recent shower incident that these children inside of you may be dead. They won’t be human, and they won’t be rats. They will be rat people, Lady, and we want you to be ready to accept that.”

“I ain’t having no fucking rat-children,” I told them very sincerely. “I can’t be a mother, I can’t even take care of myself half the time.” This sad realization, or the sound of its admission coming out of my mouth, was heavy. It was nice living my irresponsible and disastrous life as I had been, but the minute I admitted it was a horrible and disastrous life it suddenly seemed to lose its appeal.

“We would happily take the children, and raise them as our own,” Oscar said. Claudia climbed onto his back. I don’t know why.

“I wouldn’t have to do anything? Not even breastfeeding?”

“Not even breastfeeding,” Claudia said. She was still on Oscar’s back. “I would take care of nursing them, because I have greater nursing capabilities than you do with your oversized yet limited breasts.” She exposed to me the rows of nipples lining her abdomen, while Oscar pulled apart the fur to make them more apparent to me.

“Disgusting,” I remarked.

She hadn’t asked for my commentary. I commentary-ed anyway.

“It would behoove us and the rat community if you would have these children and grant them to us,” Oscar said.

“Whoa,” I said. “Behoove? I’ve got feet, Mister Oscar. No hooves on me, I left the farm life long behind.” I then remembered the farm, and Barbalay. My sweet, young sex mistress was rotting in prison a whole nation away. I cleared my mind of that immediately.

“How long will it take?” I asked. “I have plans that need to be made to happen very soon. I don’t have time to be pregnant.”

They looked at one another. “Oh, well no more than…” Claudia started.

“Rats are usually pregnant for about three weeks, Lady,” Oscar informed me.

“Humans, as you know, for about nine months,” Claudia said. “So we don’t really know how long you’d –“

“So halfway,” I said. “These kids will fall out at like four and a half months?”

“That’s probably not how it works, I’m afraid,” said Oscar in his usual arrogant Australian tone. What a dick.

I rolled my eyes and then I rolled my r’s. “Rrrrrreally? You think so? How the hell would you even know?”

“It’s just a feeling, maybe I’m wrong.”

The rats and I talked for hours about my pregnancy, and me giving birth to their abomination rat-human hybrid creatures. They were excited about it, and after enough yelling, I was excited about it, too. The only thing I had planned in the near future was the Spin Doctors concert I was most definitely going to attend. No rats or parasitic rat-man hybrids inside of my womb would prevent me from seeing and meeting and partying with the Spin Doctors, so I let them know about this. They were fine with it. They suggested that if I were still pregnant during this time I not touch any drugs or alcohol, but I told them to go fuck themselves. If I told my Spin Doctors I was pregnant with rat people, drugs would be our only hope of a gangbang. But I didn’t know the Spin Doctors personally, so I couldn’t say this for sure. When we were all done talking about it, and had all agreed that I’d have the rat children, I shit on myself. Fecal incontinence, I couldn’t help it. Oscar said something about me getting my rectum fixed, but I had other worries at the moment.

As luck would have it, I gave birth to the ratmen the very next day, the day before the Spin Doctors show. Also as luck would have it, most of the disfigured and bizarre creatures fell out of my vagina completely dead, apparently drowned from the water I had filled my body with the day before in my orgasmic Spin Doctors masturbation frenzy in my bathroom. The two who fell out still alive and squirming and screeching in an absolutely nightmare-inducing rage of interspecies mating godlessness were obviously rendered mentally and physically retarded by any number of things, one of which, Oscar and Claudia decided, must be brain damage due to all the water I had put inside of me. Of all the animals I’d fucked in my life, none had ever made me pregnant. But merely rolling in a bed of rat jizz somehow made me pregnant with nine ratmen. Seven dead rat-human hybrids were in a pile on the floor of my apartment. Leviathan and Eugene were already nibbling on the bodies of their dead half-brothers and half-sisters.

The pounds of mucus and afterbirth and flavorful liquid and chunks that flowed out of me during this 3 hour event of birth-giving was horrendous, and I kept screaming at Oscar, as he pulled bodies from my gaping window of a vagina, that I’d never give birth to his children ever again. He only laughed as I shat on myself and shat out abominable creatures. Before they had begun feasting on their half-siblings, Eugene and Leviathan had started slurping up my afterbirth from the floor. I could only smile, because I imagined it tasted great. But when Leviathan stood on my chest and regurgitated a little bit of my own afterbirth and spit it into my mouth, I decided I was wrong and that it wasn’t a taste I ever wanted to experience again for the rest of my life. Live and learn.

Claudia had video taped the whole ordeal, somehow finding a video camera from one of my neighbors when she went through one of the many holes in the walls her and Oscar had created during their stay in my place.

By the end of the day I was pooped, literally and figuratively. I was starving and dehydrated, and also finding myself rather annoyed by the new residents sharing our (my) apartment. These two retarded children were not only disgusting and horrifying to look at, but also annoying as all hell, because they wouldn’t stop screeching and whining. Oscar had told me rats were generally quiet when they were born. I told him humans were generally loud. Rat-humans were even louder.

I told the rat family that I had to turn in for the night, even though it was only 8:30 pm. I had a long day ahead of me, and was going to need to freshen up my pubes and wax my tits for the Spin Doctors show the following night. Eugene and Leviathan cleaned up most of the mess of childbirth, so I went into my room, closed the door, turned on Spin Doctors, and got to work on my pubes and tits.

“Tomorrow is going to be the best night of my life,” I said, into my bedroom mirror. I meant it. I knew it was true. Afterbirth was still spilling out of me, but it didn’t get in the way. I spit on my hands and rubbed them together. Then I spread the spit on my breasts, down to my vagina, and rubbed it into my inner thighs. It was time to get ready for Spin Doctors.

Chapter 13. I Brushed My Teeth Today, and am Full of Electricity

Sweat was pouring into my eyes, my drool was pouring into a funnel, and the funnel was attached to a man’s mouth into which other things were pouring. His face was covered in beard and mustache, so it was like two gorillas kissing when I sat on his mouth. When I grinded my crotch back and forth across his lips it was like two Eskimos with face masks making Eskimo kisses in the warmth of a dark room.

This was even before the four men decided to show me what I missed by not going to my high school prom by filling me with four flavors of sausage, guitar necks, and drum sticks. My body was a subway station granting passage to any man who wished to take a voyage through miles of dark tunnels and cavernous abysses. Each subway train speeding through the tunnels, filled with people eager to jump out at any brief stop, would sometimes rush past another train, going the other way through the same tunnel, stopping only long enough to unload aimless life all over the place. Men were running around forcing themselves through doors trying to close tightly, flowing like water into and out of the dark unknown.

At first the men were disgusted by my frequent bowel movements and bodily functions, because they said this kind of thing had no place in sex and pleasures of the flesh. But through the rest of the night I changed their views of sex and what was possible with just a few eager bodies fueled by drugs, alcohol, Care Bears cartoons, and liquid lust. If I had to piss or shit, the men just let me drop it where we were laying. We’d smear our bodies through it, and the guy whose mouth I was sitting on liked it when my chocolate was smeared through my pubic hair like sludge and sewage. I rode his face into the tight bathroom, so we could open the toilet to see what treasures were waiting for us after the other three men used it. I dipped my head into the toilet, clenched my jaw around a shitsnake, and pulled it out. Like my favorite scene from ‘Lady and the Tramp’, we each took an end of the shit log and slurped it until our lips met in the middle, and helped one another chew it to soft-serve perfection. The other three men joined in ceremoniously, consecrating our romance.

But I guess I should rewind a little. As you may have guessed, these four men were the Spin Doctors, my new boyfriends. Spin Doctors was a very suitable name for their group, because minutes after they led me onto their bus I was spinning on their dicks like a hula-hoop. The hacksawed lamb-chop that was my vagina was so loose that I spun without any difficulty, and they’d even use my butt as an axis to spin me around.

Maybe I should rewind further. I showed up to the Spin Doctors show that night in my raunchiest get-up. I left my bra and panties at home, and the dress only came down a few inches below my hips. It was so low cut that my breasts could flop freely if I wanted them to (I wanted them to). I’d iced my nipples all night before leaving home so they’d be as hard as possible when I got to the show. The concert was fine. A band came out before Spin Doctors so I booed them and threw sandwiches at them that I bought from the bar. I don’t remember what they were called, I just remember that they weren’t Spin Doctors so I didn’t give a shit about them or their music.

When Spin Doctors got onto the stage I masturbated in the crowd through their whole set. I came over a hundred times while they played, and some of the boys in the audience, some as young as 12, licked me while I quivered and touched myself. It was nice, and I didn’t care what the boys did as long as I could hear my Doctors. Their hands were all over me and my hands were probably all over them, but my ears were all over Spin Doctors.

After the concert finished I violently forced my way back stage to the security barrier where a few hulks stood guard in front of the Spin Doctors dressing room. They were big muscle machines who I could tell packed thick meat in their pants, but all they were to me was a wall that stood between me and my Doctors of Spin. I tried to sweet talk my way past them, flashed my tits, gave a peek at the wad of pube entanglement from below my dress, but nothing I could say or do convinced them I deserved to be on the other side of that door.

I was starting to cry when I thought that I might never get to munch on Spin Doctor cock, but that didn’t last too long. The door to their dressing room opened, and a man peaked out, looked at me for a few seconds, and told security to let me in! I ran in, squealing and clapping.

The door slammed behind me. There in the dressing room, sitting on couches and chairs, was my favorite band in the world. Spin Doctors were drinking vodka and smoking cigarettes and looking in mirrors. Some other girls were in there, half naked, lying on the couches or the floor. I recognized the man who had taken me in there, he was the band’s bass player.

“Welcome to the Spin Zone,” the man said, pointing to a white piece of cardboard on which “Spin Zone” was written in black marker. “I’m Mark. I play bass for Spin Doctors. What’s your name?”

I was so nervous, but that couldn’t keep me from talking. “I’m Lady, I love all of you guys and want to be your slave of sex and abuse. Please do what you want with me. I brushed my teeth today and am full of electricity.”

There were a few chuckles.

“Mark here has a knack for really figuring out what a girl is all about just by looking at her,” a man said. I recognized this man to be Chris, the singer of Spin Doctors, the voice of my wettest dreams.

“Yeah,” Mark said. “I could tell by your face alone that you’re a chick who really digs anal, and like, probably anything else a guy wants. You’ve got a look about you that screams for a denial of respect and love, but  beckons for dirt in your holes.”

“Can’t argue, there!” I said.

There were more chuckles, but nothing really like the laughs I was looking for. Didn’t matter. I wasn’t here for laughs, I was here for dicks up in my holes. I would soon see if I would get the kind of dicks I was looking for.

The guys in the band all introduced themselves to me, each handing me something to drink or smoke or snort. I used all of it. The four half-naked girls introduced themselves to me, each handing me something to inject, swallow or stick on my tongue. I used all of those. In minutes I was fucked out of my mind. The people in the room were caricatures to me, kind of like toys and cartoon characters to use for my amusement. Through my own drug-induced dominance I took control of the room and choreographed an orgy that those old Roman guys I’ve seen in paintings would have been proud of. Didn't they have orgies? I thought I heard that they did, but I don’t read books so I don’t know.

One of the girls had brought a tape of Care Bears cartoons into the room with her, so they were playing on the TV in the background. It was really perfect for our activities. I said my name was Lion Heart, and I painted a Care Bear, or Care Lion, on my naked chest with some of the leftover cocaine and menstrual blood from the youngest girl, named Bleckie. She was only 16 but her blood worked fine with the coke to make me into a real life Care Bear. The other girls took my lead and put their fingers into Bleckie’s vagina to scoop out as much blood as they could, so they could paint themselves up as their favorite Care Bears. I was so happy to see how into their characters each of them got.

The Spin Doctors boys said it was a cute idea, and got really into it with us, dressing themselves up like characters from the Fat Albert cartoon. They already had most of the clothes they needed.

At some point we ended up on the tour bus, each of us with our mouths on genitals and asses. Our energy kept going and the sex kept getting better. One by one, the other girls lost everything they had to offer. Bleckie was the first one out. The next one out was a girl who had been a virgin at the beginning of the night, named Nicolette. We’d torn her vagina up with four dicks at once and my fists plunging into her colon. She also bled a good amount which gave us more ideas for dressing up and role-playing.

As each girl was passing out or quitting, more of the band concentrated on me. This was good, because I require sexual attention to feel alive.

This brings us to where I started. I was sitting on Chris’s face, my pubes brushing with his beard, our bodies all covered in human waste and blood. This sexual odyssey went on into the early morning, until we all finally passed out.

I woke up the next day underneath a table and bottles of beer on my head. The floor was rumbling and the air smelled of patchouli. I sat up, noticed my nakedness, and realized that I must still be on the Spin Doctors tour bus. This was the best morning of my life. My vagina was raw with flesh burn swirled around its inside, vodka still leaking from my butt hole, and bugs in my ears.

I clumsily walked to the front of the bus to ask the driver where we were going. He said we were heading to the next city, and offered me a puff of his cigar. I said he wasn’t smoking a cigar and he said he didn’t mean that kind of cigar. I didn’t get it, so I sat back down. I found a box of apple chips on the bus and stuffed my face full of the last few that were left. I sat there, staring out the window as we sped along the interstates and freeways as if there was even a difference between the two, and wondered if this was going to be the beginning of the rest of my life. I’m not much for reflecting on things and I don’t like thinking too hard about what’s going on in my life or how I got to where I am, so I let the air in my head continue to sit still.

Later in the afternoon someone else woke up and came out to say hi to me. It was the drummer in the band, whose name I didn’t remember. The only thing I remembered about him from the night before was that he loved the smell of my farts and the taste of Mark’s piss. Not long after that, the girls started getting up off the floor and realizing that they were in the same boat as me – new Spin Doctors groupies. This drummer said instead that we were like their captured slaves who would serve them sexually for the rest of their tour. That was the best news I’d ever heard in my life, even though the other girls didn’t react as enthusiastically as I did.

Bleckie and Nicolette were two of the four other girls, and I got the names of the other two, both in their early 20’s - a little younger than me. They were Yarara and Frangfroi. Both girls were French, which I had guessed by the way they kissed.

“So, Bleckie,” I said to Bleckie, “what’s your story?”

Bleckie was looking for tampons to stuff into her vagina to ease the drip-drip-drip from her meat hole. “Well, I’m Bleckie. I’m sixteen and I go to Brickhair High School. My parents don’t know I went to see the Spin Doctors because I told them I was going to my friend Kate’s house. Kate isn’t actually my friend, she’s a nerdy cunt who reads fat books about trees and American Presidents. Kate’s a fag. I love the Spin Doctors and I love to fuck, so I showed up totally trashed with Nicolette here, who my parents hate.”

“I’m Nicolette,” said Nicolette. “I like to drink but boys don’t like me. Boys make me buy my own alcohol because I won’t suck their dicks or let them put theirs inside of me. I’m Christian and believe that sex should only be had after marriage, if at all. I do like kissing, though. But if a boy grabs my boobs when we kiss, I usually hit him really hard.”

“How old are you, Nicolette?” Yarara asked her.

“I’m 19, I go to college, and I’m studying to be a social worker.”

“Well, I guess you screwed up last night!” I said. “Sex before marriage is the best, isn't it?”

“What do you mean?” Nicolette asked. “I don’t have sex.”

“You did last night,” Bleckie said. “Lady and all the Spin Doctors fucked you like a dead animal.”

“A dead animal? I lost my virginity?” she screamed. I could tell she was devastated.

I couldn’t handle what I knew was about to be a very awkward few minutes of her crying and whining about losing her virginity, so I jumped on her and kissed her on the lips, licked her nose on the inside, and brushed my fingers through her hair while I whispered “shhhhhh” in her ear. It kept her calm.

I turned to the French girls, and whispered, “tell me about yourselves, you fine French fucks,” while continuing to lick Nicolette's face.

The two Frenchies told me they had been studying abroad in New York City from Paris, and loved genuine American rock n roll like Spin Doctors, and always dreamed of meeting real life rock n roll stars. Every time we passed a McDonalds in the next city, they would shout and holler about French fries and how much they loved them and how they were reminded of France by eating them. These girls were both in their mid twenties, dripping in sexual energy, cultured like the devil.

         

Before the show that night, the girls and I sucked the dicks of the band and let them put things inside of us until they were ready to go on stage. These girls were going to become my best friends for the next month while we lived on this tour bus with our favorite band in the world. Yarara said the Spin Doctors were like the Libertines in 120 Days of Sodom, and we girls were their harem of pleasure and sexual deviance. If it had been possible to say how excited I was, I would have said it. But I didn’t want to seem un-cool in front of my new friends, who I thought were pretty cool.

Chapter 14. Yellow, Red, and Brown

“I like my cunts to taste like cunts, ya dig?”

“Sorry, Aaron,” Nicolette said.

The Spin Doctors drummer was very particular about how his ladies’ vaginas smelled and tasted, and wouldn’t tolerate anything out of the ordinary. Nicolette, having been a virgin until our current adventure with the Spin Doctors, wasn’t aware of how to prep her vagina for sexual brutality. When I’d eat her out I would notice the smell of lemons inside of her vag, but didn’t really care because there’s no such thing as a taste I don’t like. The band commented on it for a while, but never complained. Aaron, though, had been angered by this and refused to have sex with Nicolette for a few days because she insisted on dousing her vagina in lemonade after her showers.

Aaron was just stuck in his ways. I liked him, he was kind of nice, but he wasn’t very exciting with sex. You always knew what you were going to get. My least favorite thing about him, though, was his strictness with grammar. While on the bus and not having sex, we would all sit around talking about popular culture, farm culture and English royalty.  The two French girls hated English royalty, while Eric, Mark and Aaron in the band loved it. I didn’t care one way or another, because I didn’t even know about the existence of the country of Great Britain until Yarara explained to me where France was, and I learned a little about the continent of Europe. I don’t want to turn this into a history lesson, but according to some of the people on the bus there were a couple of large scale wars based in and around Europe, involving the European countries and even America. I thought that was weird. But to get back on topic, Aaron would stare us down like rabid cats when we were using grammar incorrectly. I never liked it. More on that, in a second.

Nicolette got back on her hands, while Aaron pulled her legs up onto his shoulders, and buried his face in her crotch.

I was being double-teamed by Mark and Eric, while the other three girls were being screwed by the singer, Chris, who was jackhammering the shit out of each of them with his dick and both of his hands, all at the same time. What a lifestyle. We were now in the second week of being on tour with the boys, and had accepted our roles as sexual servants gladly. I, for one, finally felt fulfilled with something I was doing in my empty and shallow life. Though being used as a rotten piece of sexual meat was nothing new to me, it was exciting to be used by my favorite band in the world. In fact, this was the only band I liked or knew the music of.

We’d sort of work like an assembly line on the bus, as the band members moved from one of us girls to another to use us each for different sex acts as they willed. Each day on that bus was very much like a long day working at a factory, something I know nothing about. But feeding the sexual bloodlust of Spin Doctors was a hard job, which took hours out of the day.

When, on this particular day, it came to be Aaron’s turn to fuck the life out of me, he wanted us to do it on one of the bottom bunks. When we were set, and my legs were spread, I awaited his love muscle’s entrance.

“Ugh…” he grunted. It was the sound I came to know as signaling his insertion of his penis into a hole. But I felt nothing.

“Is it in?” I asked.

He stared at me. I suddenly knew I had offended him; not by insulting his manhood, but by ending my question with a preposition. His grammar standards were present even in the acts of sex.

“I mean, is it in… my vagina? Your penis. Is your penis inside of my vagina, Aaron?”

“Yes, Lady. My dick’s inside of you.”

I played along with his thrusts and his gestures of routine business transactions. I moaned and squealed, like I knew he wanted. I won’t say sex for me was becoming routine, feeling like a job instead of thrilling fuckfests, because it wasn’t. But for Aaron, I think that’s all it was.

Aaron also liked to spit in my face during sex, and only mine, no one else’s. I never figured out why, but I took it as a compliment.

Chris came in and told Aaron to leave, so he could have his go at me in the privacy of the bunk bed, which really didn’t provide any privacy at all. After no more than ten minutes he called Nicolette and Bleckie in, and told them to climb onto the bed with us. Chris got between my legs, missionary style, Bleckie sat on my face while I tongue-fucked her butt and crimson canyon, and Nicolette straddled Bleckie’s face, and put her own face against Chris’s face, making out with his mouth. The four of us made a sex-square in the bunk, and it was beautiful. We three girls began to cry at the simultaneous thought that this was the most lovely way for four people to share intimate thoughts and ideas. I put my hands on Bleckie’s tits while she put her hands on Nicolette’s tits, while Nicolette put her hands on Chris’s  nipples, and Chris put his hands on my tits. We all squeezed at the same time, bringing us each to simultaneous orgasm after enough grinding and penetrating had occurred.

Chris stood up and left our sex-square after he came, leaving Bleckie, Nicolette, and me to continue the activities of satisfaction. We required further pleasure that one man simply could not provide. Being the most experienced, I took to dishing out orders. I looked at Nicolette. “I want you to vomit on my pussy and shit in my mouth.”

She tossed me a look like she didn’t believe me, so I slapped her on the nose and licked my lips. She could tell I meant business.

I made Bleckie lie down on the bed next to me, and had Nicolette climb on top of me, her ass on my face, her face aimed toward my hair-forested vagina.

Nicolette stuck her finger down her throat, and wiggled it around for some time while I stuck two fingers into her tight, but climate controlled anus. I heard her gagging, and the pubes surrounding my vagina must have stood on end as they tried to imitate goosebumps. I stared deep into her colon as I fished for the button that would set her loose, dumping her waste of the day into my mouth. I hit it. There was a short rumbling and the gurgling sound of guts in digestive climax, just before a smooth, soft, quickly moving river of shit poured from her gaping anus like hot mud from a bathtub faucet. My mouth was open and the pleasures dropped in, flowing down my throat to an anxious belly. As soon as Nicolette caught a whiff of her own shit, she let loose a storm of vomit, showering my pussy in her latest meal, stomach acid, and snot. I thrust my crotch into the air as she sprayed it down, bobbing it up and down in rhythm to her convulsions.

The shit was piling up in my mouth, and out of the corner of my eye I could see Bleckie’s face, overcome with horror and confusion, as she watched me tutor Nicolette in proper bedroom conduct. When Nicolette’s fire-hose projectile vomiting was over, and my mouth couldn’t hold anymore shit, I threw Nicolette to the floor and leaned over, climbing on top of Bleckie.

She screamed at first, which was the reaction I was going for. While her mouth was open, I spit Nicolette’s shit into Bleckie’s face, and French kissed her a proper ration of the hot brown stuff. My vagina rubbed against hers, sharing with it an intimate dressing of throw up. I heard Nicolette cry as she lied on the ground, unsure what to do next. I understood her reaction. Sex is emotional and tears are expected. Bleckie cried when I got off of her, and started sharing her own puke with us, all over the bed and the floor, right on top of Nicolette’s fetal-positioned body. The puke was full of shit, and the smell was out of this world. I felt like a proper sexual mentor for these girls, and was getting a little teary-eyed myself at watching their growth before my eyes.

 After their performance that night, the band was too tired for sex. This was normal. It happened about once a week. The five of us ladies always got tired of sitting around on the bus or hanging out in the dressing room while the band played, so we would walk around town. This particular night was no different. We convinced the Spin Doctors to come walking around with us when they were done playing and kissing their fans on the mouths.

The town looked familiar to me. We never paid close attention to where we were going on this tour, because it was none of our business. I couldn’t really name more than three cities we saw on the tour, even though they played in dozens. There was something about this town, though, that smelled like my dreams. It smelled like burning coal with milk. There was a taste to the streets and a feeling to the grass that I knew was somehow a part of me. Then I knew why. This was where I grew up.

“Guys!” I shouted, while we were walking down some pointless, dark street toward another pointless and dark street.

Frangfroi and Yarara looked at one another, then asked if ladies should pay attention too, since this sounded important. I told them that they should.

“What?” Chris asked, not at all interested in what I might say.

“I think this is my home town. Where are we?”

“I don’t know, just some city,” Mark said. “I don’t even know what state we’re in.”

Aaron stared Mark down, silently letting him know his mistake.

“I don’t know in which state we are… standing,” Mark corrected himself.

Aaron nodded in approval.

“Fuck you, Aaron,” Mark said.

“I grew up in this place,” I said. “My childhood home is probably not far!”

Aaron stared me down.

“My childhood home is probably not far… away.”

He continued to stare.

“Not far from here is my childhood home, I think,” I said.

He nodded.

“Fuck you, Aaron,” I said.

The guys agreed it would be neat to stop by and see my home, and for me to introduce them to my parents so they could flirt with my mom and run a train on her on what they assumed was a king sized bed in her and my father’s bedroom.

“I don’t want to see my parents,” I said. “But there is something I want to show you guys. It’s still at my house, so we need to stop by there before we leave town!”

We climbed back on the bus and I told the driver, whose name I still didn’t know, how to get to my parents’ house. It was past midnight when we arrived.

“You guys wait out here while I go sneak into the house. I used to do this all the time.”

“Be careful, Lady,” Yarara said. She French kissed me for good luck. I spit on my fingers and slid them up her skirt and into her butthole, also for good luck. Frangfroi handed me a map of France.

“This is a token of our friendship, Lady,” she said. “If you do not come back to us, or you die while you are gone, we will always remember you.”

“This map isn’t going to help me,” I told her. “You keep it. I’ll be back.”

Aaron grunted.

“Eat shit, Aaron,” I said. “Alright, wish me luck. I’m going in.”

Aaron grunted again, and stared at me.

“I’m going in… the house. I’m going into the house, guys. Aaron, you fucking loaf of dog shit, I’m going into the house. Kiss my ass.”

Everyone patted me on the back or smacked me on the butt, or flicked me on the tits. One way or another, everyone’s hands touched me as I walked out of the bus and approached the house I hadn’t seen in almost 10 years. Their warmth was with me. I could feel it. I could still taste all of them, their juices inside of me. I would need their strength to face the home  of nightmares, where I spent months locked in a closet.

I climbed in through the window which had, at one point, been a nursery my parents had set up in hopes of having another baby. After they became suicidally disappointed in me, however, they refused to have another child and left that room untouched. They never even talked about it. I got into the room easily, and slowly crept through the house. I had to find the attic, for the treasure I was hunting would be stored away in a chest hidden away there.

The attic was in the same place it was when I ran away, which was convenient. I opened the door and slowly, quietly, scoured through every box I could find. Under a pile of women’s clothes intended for my father, which my mother bought him for a birthday one year after she misunderstood what he meant when he said he wanted to explore the world of women more intimately, I found the chest. It was like any other chest: so-so in size, and rigid, solid, with a definite shape to it. It really was an average chest in most ways. I opened it and rummaged through the childhood crap I’d put in there over the years until I found the envelope which contained my treasure. I’d dreamed of this treasure for a long time, and finally had it in my hands once more. I closed the chest and left the attic.

I thought it would be a good idea to write a little note to my parents and to leave it in the kitchen, so they would see it and know I was alive and well when they woke up in the morning. It would also let them know I broke into their home in the middle of the night and scare the shit out of them. I found a pen in a drawer in the kitchen, and pulled out a napkin to write my note.

“Hello mother and father,

It’s me, Lady. I’m in your house. The time is now 1:22 AM and I just finished rummaging through your attic. I hope you guys miss me. Every once in a while I think about you guys and sort of miss you, a little bit. I want you to know I am alive and doing well with my life. I worked for Donald Trump in New York City for a little while, if you know who he is. I made a lot of money and lived with some talking rats in an apartment for a while before I left to go on tour with this pretty hip band called Spin Doctors. Their tour bus is right outside your house right now. They’re waiting for me. I have friends, now. My friends are on that bus, and they love me. They can’t wait for me to get back on that bus with them. I found people who accept me for who I am – the sexbeast you raised as your daughter. Mom, the guys in the band want to gang bang you on yours and dad’s bed. I was thinking of letting them come in with me so they could meet you guys, but I didn’t know how it would go. I thought maybe you and dad would try to attack me with bats. I should probably go now, my friends are waiting. I love you guys. Love, Lady.”

Then I kissed the napkin and set it down on the kitchen table for them to find in the morning. I headed back to the forgotten nursery, but thought I should first take a peek at the room that used to be my bedroom. I wanted to see what they had done with it.

I walked up the stairs to my old room, which was just down the hall from mom and dad’s room. I had to be very quiet and careful. The door to what was once my bedroom, I noticed, had a sticker on it that said Nintendo, a word I had heard but never understood. I wasn’t going to try to decipher it now. I opened the door slowly to see a room totally different than what I remembered. There was a bed with a small child in it. A child, in my old room? Oh my god. I had somehow time traveled and must have been looking at myself as a young child. I was astonished, because it appeared that as a young child I looked very much like a little boy. I didn’t remember my room having pictures of cartoon characters on the wall.

I crept over to the bed and stood above my past self, staring at a me that didn’t look at all the way I remembered looking. I knelt down next to the bed and put my hand on my past self’s face. This little person woke up.

“Aah! Who are you?!” he asked. It was a he. I didn’t remember this.

“Lady, it’s me, Lady!” I said. “I’m you, from the future!”

“What? Who is Lady?” the little boy asked, very tired and confused.

“You are Lady! And so am I! I am you, from the future!”

“My name is Donderich Molasses, what’s happening?”

“Huh? How?” I asked. Then I realized that I wasn’t looking at my past self, but my younger brother. Holy shit. I had a younger brother.  “You… Donderich. Donderich!” I got a little bit teary eyed, but kept control of myself. “I’m your older sister! Lady!” I shouted in a whisper.

“I don’t have a sister,” the kid said.

“What? Of course you do, I’m her. I grew up in this house! When were you born? How old are you?”

“I’m six. I don’t have any brothers or sisters.”

My parents had been so ashamed of me that they never told my new brother that I even existed. I knew they were happy I was gone, but I never knew I had a brother. I stood up, leaking water from my eyes, and walked out of this kid’s bedroom. “It was nice to meet you, kid,” I said. I closed the door behind me. I wiped those tears from my eyes and ran down the stairs, making as much noise as I could, threw the front door open and ran out, slamming it behind me. I ran onto the bus and shouted for them to drive off.

“Let’s hurry, hit the road!” I commanded. I looked at the house, and the bedroom light my parents’ room had turned on. Soon they would see my note and remember they had a daughter, kind of. But now it was time to divert my attention to the treasure.

“Did you get it? The treasure?” Chris asked.

“I sure did,” I said as I pulled the envelope out of my pocket and put it on the table. “Take a look.”

Everyone gathered around the table and looked at the envelope, hesitating to touch it. Finally Bleckie picked it up and opened it. She pulled out the small Polaroid photos and everyone peaked over her shoulder at them. Their faces turned to shock as they looked through them.

“Uhh…” Eric said, looking at me with a face that somehow looked disgusted. “Lady?”

“Lady,” Mark said, “these are pictures of…”

“Naked kids!” Bleckie yelled, clearly upset. “What the fuck?”

“Not kids,” I said. “Kid. That’s the same kid in each photo. It’s me! Those are pictures of me! Occasionally I would borrow my dad’s Polaroid camera and take pictures of myself.”

“Naked?” Nicolette asked.

“In very disturbing sexual positions?” Bleckie asked.

“And at eight years old?” Aaron asked.

“This is disgusting,” Chris said. “This is child pornography, Lady.”

“But I was consenting,” I explained. “I took the pictures of myself. There’s nothing wrong with that! You can’t be guilty of child pornography if you’re the victim!”

 Everyone was silent for a moment.

“I guess that’s true,” Chris replied.

“I like them,” Frangfroi said sheepishly.

“Me too,” Yarara chimed in. “They are really great, Lady. Even as a child you were so wise with sex. Your breasts were as large as mountains.”

“Thank you!” I exclaimed. “You are both so kind.”

“I guess I kind of like them, too,” Nicolette said.

The others still didn’t like them. I didn’t care. My performance pieces were ahead of their time, and not for everybody.

“I want to put these on Internet,” I told them. “I don’t know how to do it because I can’t use Internet, but I have heard about it. I know lots of people use Internet for porn and e-mail, so I want to e-mail these pictures to people so they can share them with everyone they know. For years I’ve had fantasies of people seeing these pictures of me, sharing them with one another, talking about them and enjoying them. This is a dream of mine that I’ve never talked about.”

Aaron looked at me, fiercely.

“Fuck off and die,” I said to him.

He let it go, and I continued.

“I still remember making these and showing them to kids I knew in the neighborhood. The other kids liked them, and I thought it was a fun thing to do. You guys think it’s gross, but I thought it was the most fun I could have.”

No one said anything, but they kept looking through my pictures. I knew they liked them. I also knew that at least one of them probably knew how to use Internet, and would help me put them on the world wide web.

It was getting late, so everyone started  going to sleep. I put the pictures back in the envelope and lied down under the table to go to sleep. As I was drifting into my perverted world of dreams and symbols, I felt someone cuddle up beside me. It was Frangfroi.

“I meant it when I said I liked your pictures, Lady,” she whispered into my ear. “They are art. They are beautiful. You are a beautiful lady and I want to touch you now not only with my hands and my lips and my tongue, but with my soul. I want your soul to reach back to me while we lose ourselves in “passion”.”

I was speechless for a second.

“That’s French for “passion”,” she said.

“Oh! Ok,” I said.

We embraced and lost ourselves in passion, which is French for passion. All night long we kissed, fingered, fucked, sucked, licked, flicked, squirted and spurted. Then we slept.

The next day, around 1 in the afternoon when everyone began getting up, Mark sat down next to me.

“Lady, I gave it some thought and realized I’d like to help you out with your dream. I don’t want to have my involvement known, because I don’t want to spend a lot of time in jail for child pornography and shit like that. But I know this is important to you, and I think you’re a disgusting but terrific person. I’ll help you do what you want to do.”

I kissed Mark and thanked him with a hand job. No words could express my gratitude. 

“I’ve even come up with a theme you could have, say, for a web site!” he said.

“What’s a website?” I asked.

“Don’t worry about that right now. But the important thing about websites is that yours is flashy and attracts a lot of attention. I have a friend back in New York who does really groovy web design. He uses tons of animated GIFS and little animations. It really brings the page to life.”

“Whoa, Mark,” I said, a little bit overwhelmed. “This is a lot of information! You’re using big words and saying things I don't understand. IS a, what do you call it, a website, going to help me get these pictures out to everyone?”

“It sure will,” he said. “And you won’t even have to do anything for it. Actually, I’ve already thought up a neat design idea for the web page. It came to me last night when I was laying down to sleep. We could call the site ‘LadyLand’, and give it the feel of being a faraway, enchanted and magical land where… there just so happens to be… a very disturbed and perverted young Lady.  But we could give it the theme of being, you know, like its own little country or something. Kind of give the feeling of “escape” to people who view it.”

“I like how this sounds,” I said. “Tell me more, Mark.”

“I even came up with a flag design for this ‘LadyLand’. It’s a very simple design, just a flag with three colors: yellow, red and brown. These colors striped across the flag, horizontally.”

“Why those colors?” I asked him.

“I was going through your panties a couple days ago looking for something to sniff, and noticed that every single pair had skid marks in them. Your skid marks were always either yellow, red or brown. Sometimes all three colors were present on your panties.”

“Ah, yes. Ok,” I said.

“Presumably from pee, blood and poo, right?” he asked.

“Right.”

“So I think that flag would look good, sort of animated as blowing in the wind on the front of your website, while some cool MIDI music plays in the background. Hell, maybe I can talk to the guys and see if they wouldn’t mind helping me write a tune for it. We know some studio guys who are good with MIDI, it could really turn out great.”

“Mark, you’re getting me so excited for this. I’m soaking wet right now. I feel like spiders are coming out of me.”

There were, in fact, spiders coming out of my vagina at that moment, but I didn’t realize it and it had nothing to do with this perfect plan thought up by Mark to get my pictures shown to the world. After we ate breakfast, Mark and I made out for a little and he convinced me to let him give me anal, like he always did. It was then that we noticed the spiders, but Mark said he didn’t mind them if I didn’t. I didn’t. He liked spiders crawling up his dick and swarming around his testicles, he said. Made him feel like Pontius Pilate, he said. I went with it. He fucked me hard for a few miles, calling me Jesus Christ and Mary, Mother of God while we celebrated his terrific idea with sex. Now, I couldn’t wait for the tour to be over. It was time for my next dream to come true.

Chapter 15. Sometimes Coming Home Isn't Easy

She keeps farting. She keeps farting on my ham. She keeps farting on my ham sandwich. She keeps farting on my ham sandwich and won’t look me in the eyes.

This was something I found one night in a journal Bleckie was keeping on the road. While she was brushing the stains of the day out of her teeth and skin I went through her hand bag and found things that were useless, but also a journal. The bus was big, but not big enough for 10 people, so it was a  very cramped space all of us shared. Myself and the other ladies were not good at sharing, especially when it came to sex. But we were usually good about sharing secrets because that’s the only thing women are good at, and we knew it.

It looked to me like Bleckie was keeping secrets from me, though. They were little secrets that didn’t matter to me but a secret is a secret and is meant to be shared or stolen. This journal entry was about me, because a few days earlier when we were stopped in Seattle for the boys to play a show I remember having farted on a sandwich she had laying on a table. She wasn’t eating it and was looking at it kind of like I look at my own shit when I poop more than I expect to. I farted on her sandwich as a joke at first, but she didn’t laugh. I did it again, and she just sat there looking at me. I kept farting on it, getting angrier and angrier with each spray of brown-wind. I ran out of gas and tackled her instead, tickling her with my fingers and then my teeth to get her to laugh. She was really out of it that day and didn’t put up a fight or kiss me.

The rest of that journal entry talked about me like I was an angel sent from Heaven to make her feel like a princess and to teach her things she would never know otherwise. I laughed at this stupidity, because if there’s one thing I hate it’s stupidity. The only things I had been teaching her were things about sex. These were things that came naturally to me but she found mesmerizing.

When she came out of the bathroom she caught me reading her stuff and blushed a little bit, and tried to make eye contact with me like she always did. I liked her and enjoyed having her violate me while I violated her in our non-romantic pleasure sessions each day, but I didn’t think she was as special as she thought I was. I wasn’t here to teach her anything about life, and I wasn’t here to guide her like a teacher through the hard times when a young girl blossoms into sexual maturity. Sexual maturity is for cockroaches and roach cocks. I hate it. But since I was older than her and also more qualified to dish out medicine than anyone else on the bus except the Spin Doctors, I medicated her adoration of me with a salty queefburger straight into her lips. After we shotgunned the queef steam back and forth with youthful zest we talked for a little while and I told her that even though my cunt belonged to both men and women, my heart could only belong to a man (only much later in my life would I realize how wrong this was). She understood, and said she knew I was right and that I’d never lie to her. If I’d had any good lies I would have lied to her right away. Since I couldn’t think of anything, I was being honest.

Frangfoi and Mark sat down with me that night and talked with me about the website I wanted to have made to share my childhood photos I’d found. Mark told me all about his friend back in New York who could make internet websites all by himself and even had put up some of his own on the actual world wide web of internets. When Mark showed Frangfoi the flag he designed for my website she agreed that it was a good design and that the colors were the right ones to break down the most important parts of my “essence”. I had no idea what essence was so I jotted it down in Bleckie’s journal and told her to book mark the page for me so I could look it up later. I never looked it up and still don’t care what it means.

Mark asked me if I wanted to make the website free or if I wanted to charge people money to see it. I had no idea that I could charge people money to see my pictures, but he said that websites like that usually aren’t free. I wanted to know how much money I could make and he said he had no idea. I spit on him for being like this. Frangfoi told us that back in France she had friends with their own porn websites who made thousands of dollars a week.

I think I must have passed out when she said this, because all the blood that was in my head rushed into the glands all over my body to make different parts of me swell up and turn red and wet, which is what happens when I get excited about something. I remember waking up surprised that they weren’t doing sexual things to my body but it was alright because we had business to discuss. For the first time in my life, it looked like I would get to call myself a business woman, and play the part of a pioneer. I would be a pioneer in the world of photography. When I said something about this Mark remarked that I would be more like a porn star and less like a business woman, but he was proud of me anyway and thought my heart was in the right place. I liked the sound of that a lot better. Mark kept remarking on things and I told him that it was pretty repetitive behavior for someone with his name to be having.

The tour lasted another week, and over that week Mark contacted his friend to ask about making a website for me and helped me organize my thoughts and pictures into a solid plan that he thought would work really well. He said he had seen a lot of internet porn so he had a good idea how it worked and what we should do. I still didn’t know how to use the internet at this point so I had to take his word for it. Frangfoi offered some good ideas on how we could make the website attract a European audience, which I hadn’t considered because I kept forgetting it existed.

The bus got back to New York City early one morning, signaling the end of the band’s tour. The girls and I cried pretty hard because it also signaled the end of our groupie-troupie, at least until the next tour. It was a blessing that we all lived in the same city and could still keep in touch, but I was pretty sure it wouldn't happen. As hard as it was for us to draw this time to a close, I was kind of happy to be getting back home and was excited that I would get to take care of my dreams.

I gave Mark my pictures to take to his web designer friend, but he didn’t want to carry them because he said he would be risking jail if he were caught with them. I called him a pussy, but a loveable pussy who I could eat all day. He decided it would be best for me to meet him the next day so we could go see his friend together, and I could give him the pictures in person, which sounded like a good idea. I know all about good ideas.

Parting ways with the Spin Doctors and my new girlfriends put a lump in my throat. It was time to go home and drown that lump with sugar and alcohol while seeing what was left of my apartment. I walked up the stairs of my apartment building to the third floor, wearing the same outfit I had left home in over a month earlier. Taped to the door of my apartment was a note from my landlord giving me a week’s notice of eviction. It was dated two weeks earlier.

“Fuck,” was my response. I shouted it. I unlocked the door and walked in to be hit in the nostrils by a stench so vile that even I couldn’t handle it for long. I got light-headed and dizzy, and tried to keep my balance and  stay on my feet. The windows were covered with something which kept the light out, and the floor was covered in… something. I couldn’t tell what it was before the stench dropped me to my knees and suffocated me into blackness. Everything went blurry as I heard the sounds of scurrying and scuffling and scuttling around me, and then I slipped out cold.

Waking up was not easy, because waking up put me in the middle of a room of death and the same horrible smell that knocked me out. By room of death I don’t mean anything fancy or poetic, I just mean there were dead bodies in there. It was my apartment and now it looked like a slaughterhouse.

“Lady, we didn’t expect you,” a familiar voice said gently. The voice had an Australian accent. It was coming from a rat’s mouth. “We thought you’d left us for good.” It was Oscar, and he was smoking a cigar. The other smells were so powerful that the cigar’s smell was unnoticeable to me.

“Welcome back, Lady!” Claudia said, standing over me.

The two rats were happy to see me and helped me to my feet. I held my nose and breathed with my mouth while looking at the corpses scattering the floor.

“I hate what you’ve done with the place,” I told Claudia.

“This wasn’t really our doing,” Oscar said. “You remember our kids, right? They did this!”

“Leviathan and Eugene did this?”

“Not just them,” Claudia chimed in, “those ratmen kids you gave birth to helped! Turns out they’re cruel and goddamn ferocious! Every few days someone tried getting in here, into the apartment, and our little babies went berzerk on them. They’re not like normal rats at all, Lady! When Oscar’s rat sperm got into your human body some really nasty things happened. I haven't seen carnage like this since I was a young rat and my father ate my mother and brothers. Oh, but this is worse. Nasty, nasty indeed.”

She wasn’t lying. At least ten bodies were strewn across the living room floor, some with guts hanging out of their chests, missing arms, heads, legs, and others completely torn to pieces. It looked like something or someone had been eating these bodies.

“Hell, I bet you’d like to meet your sons, wouldn’t you?” Oscar asked.

“Not really,” I said.

“Boys, come on out and meet your mama. She’s home!”

When I left my place, these abominations were the size of newborn babies. I expected to see two things only a little larger, after slightly more than a month of growth. The floors of the apartment creaked loudly under not so distant footsteps and I could hear their heavy feet making their way to my bedroom door from inside the room. The door opened slowly to a pitch black dark. I walked a little bit closer, but the four eyes which opened in the darkness stopped me in my tracks. I gasped and dropped my hand from my nose. The smell around me was seeping into my skin, starting to become unnoticeable as it entered my body through my pores. From the doorway came my two children, behemoth sized ratmen who walked upright, but crouched, because they were too tall to stand up straight under 8 foot high ceilings.

They were rotten, dirty, covered in hair and blood. The hair was their own but I think the blood belonged to the bodies in the living room. The boys looked about how a human-rat hybrid should look, with the disgusting features of rats in the face and body, combined with the humanness to make them feel like my sons. I wanted to throw up but I couldn’t. How they were so huge and monstrous I didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Mama was home.

The two beasts hugged me and drooled on my head. I brushed their bloody, matted fur.

“What are their names?” I asked Oscar and Claudia.  

“We call the big one Diamond Dick and the other big one Harmful Harry,”  Claudia said. “They’re both awfully big, though, right? And both awfully harmful, haha!” She pointed at the bodies on the floor.

“Who are all of these people?” I asked. There was something unusual about this. Why were these people coming over to my apartment?

“Most of them were people looking for you,” Oscar told me. “Each of them knocked on the door at some point in the last few weeks and managed to get in here. Once they got in they didn’t get out, cause Dick and Harry got to them pretty quick! These boys are fast and relentless!”

While Oscar talked I walked over to the bodies to see who they were. The faces of some had been removed, the heads of a few had been taken clean off, but most had clothes on which meant they had to have something that would identify them.

“Our first visitor was someone Claudia and I recognized. It was your landlord, we think.”

I crouched over a body Claudia was standing next to. It was a fat man, with a brutal mustache and was definitely my landlord. His chest had been ripped open and almost everything inside of it had been taken out. I couldn’t find the remains anywhere. His face was shredded but I could see it was him.

“Some people calling themselves cops came in with guns and flashlights, and weren’t so happy to find that man laying there. They were even less happy to find Dick and Harry, though.”

Claudia pointed to two ripped up corpses by the couch, with heads removed and arms torn from their sockets.

“One person kept coming back and knocking on your door, day after day, for about a week. She would yell in through the door, saying things about finding you and hurting you. She was looking for you and seemed pretty serious about finding you. The last time she came by she seemed like she wanted to talk to you and didn’t sound as angry. We opened the door and she screamed. Harry and Dick pulled her in and she kept screaming like a girl. They ripped her up pretty bad.”

Claudia stood over a devastated corpse and smelled its rotten flesh.

I knelt down next to it and noticed a tattoo on her back. My heart froze for a moment and I vomited through my nostrils into the gaping wounds of this corpse. It was Barbalay.

“Barbalay!” I cried. “What have they done? They killed Barbalay!?” I put my face into the body’s cuts and wept tears into her dried blood and infected holes. She had been ravaged and half eaten, but when I flipped her body over and looked at her face, she was still as pretty and as slutty as I remembered her. How had she gotten out of prison? How had she found me? Did I put a return address on that package I sent her? Maybe she would have killed me if she found me. She was probably pretty upset about going to jail for something I did. I had a lot of questions to ask this dead girl, but had to ask myself instead. It was impossible to get answers.

“A middle aged couple came by looking for you as well,” Oscar said. “They knocked but since no one was home except us rats, they started to leave. But Claudia opened the door and let Dick and Harry run out and catch them. They pulled them kicking and screaming back here into the apartment where they ate them. Pretty good food!”

“Who were they?” I asked.

Claudia pointed to two bodies lying on the kitchen floor.

I didn’t even have to approach them. I could tell who they were from the dark living room. They were my parents. Both of them were gutted and dead in the kitchen, with rat-human bite marks all over their torsos.

“They brought some things with them, some suitcases. We didn’t find much that was useful…” Oscar’s voice trailed off while my head  got light again. I was getting dizzy. The smell wasn’t doing it. I had to puke but there was nothing in me. I also felt something else in my guts I hadn’t felt before so I had no idea what to think. It was like I had lost something. But what had I lost? My parents were dead, but what difference did that make? They had been dead to me for years. They found me, I thought.

“They had a piece of paper folded up in one of the suitcases. Since rats are illiterate by nature we couldn’t read it.”

Oscar handed it to me. It was a napkin and it had my note written on it. There was some blood on it, but not enough to ruin it. At least it was still in one piece. My note worked, but not liked I’d hoped.

“I think I need some time alone,” I told the rats. “I just found out my parents died.”

“Oh,  I’m so sorry to hear that, honey,” Claudia said. “Are you alright?”

“I think I will be. I just need to lay down. Excuse me.” I walked past my two giant ratman sons and entered my bedroom to find a place to pass out and maybe cry a little bit more. The lights wouldn’t turn on since the power had been cut to my home from the electric company. I lied down on the bed, next to another dead body. I pushed it out of my way and sobbed tears of grief from one eye, and tears of sorrow from the other eye. Together they were tears of both grief and sorrow, and were full of woe.

One of my large rat sons closed the door to give me privacy, and I clutched my purse tightly, with my childhood pictures inside. These pictures were the only tangible memories I had left. I wouldn’t let my children murder them or take them from me. I would keep them close to my heart and would clutch onto them until I died, or until they could be put inside of the internet. My day wasn’t going very well and I knew I was going to need to rest before I could carry on.

Sometimes coming home isn’t easy.

         

Chapter 16. Lamp Post

There was knocking on my bedroom door. I didn’t answer. A few seconds later the knocking continued. I didn’t answer. About a minute passed until there was more knocking. I still didn’t answer because I just didn’t give a fuck.

“Lady, open the door,” Oscar said from the other side.

I ignored him.

He continued to knock, faster and harder and louder. “Lady, I know you’re in there. I can hear you masturbating.”

I stood up and threw on some pants. I dragged the dead body out of my bed and left it on the floor. A girl’s got to masturbate, even in hard times like when she finds out her parents are dead or her first real friend in life escaped from prison and died. These times can be  made harder when these people die in your house while you’re away. But there still needs to be time set aside for masturbation. I put my bra on and went to the door, opening it a crack. “What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything, but Claudia is worried that you’ve been in your room all morning and afternoon, and won’t come out.”

“Oscar, I’m upset,” I replied, “don’t you understand anything?”

“I don’t know much about humans,” he said, “or your emotions and withdrawal from life. We just wanted to make sure you were OK.”

“I’m not OK. My parents are dead and so is the first girl who ever loved me as a friend and also as a co-worker.”

“Claudia and I are very sorry about this and we want to know if there is anything we can do to help. When did you find out about their deaths?”

“I found out right about the time I saw them dead in the kitchen and the living room,” I answered.

“Oh dear,” he said. He didn’t say anything else and slowly backed away from the door.

I closed the door and got back into bed. Looking at the dead body on the floor, I realized I didn’t recognize it. This was a relief. But I understood that the reason I didn’t recognize it may have been because it didn’t have a head. When I finished masturbating I looked around the room for a head and found nothing. Exploring the corpse’s pants with my hands didn’t uncover any clues, either.

After showering and getting dressed I walked into the living room to find Harry and Dick feasting on what looked like a new body. The carpet was red with fresh blood and it smelled kind of like Outback Steakhouse but a little less Australian and also sort of how I imagined a deli to smell. Oscar and Claudia were sitting in the kitchen with Leviathan and Eugene on the floor gobbling at cucumbers with milk. I looked at them, smiled to be polite, and tried to look like I was happy about the mess.

When dead bodies cover the floor of your apartment it can be depressing, and so I admit I was feeling a little depressed. Seeing Leviathan and Eugene sitting on top of my parents’ corpses while they played in their cucumbers and milk made me upset and reminded me that I was an orphan. But I didn’t have time to hang around crying just because my children were mutilating and devouring corpses of loved ones in my home. I had dreams to chase and wasn’t going to let my responsibilities as a parent stand in the way. My photos were in my purse, my purse was in my hand, and I was wearing clothes. I could leave.

I knelt down by Barbalay’s body and looked through her pants. Though I admit I was still attracted to her after years of prison had turned her into a pasty, frumpy looking bitch, and her body was torn to bits, I wasn’t feeling around in her pants to touch her butthole or her vagina, even though I did smell my hands later. I was looking for clues like a detective would look for clues. I’ve seen three shows on TV based on crimes or criminals, so I know a thing or two about investigating a crime scene and looking for things. Even though I wasn’t looking for clues on the killer, because I knew my ratmen children killed her, I was trying to figure out how she found where I lived. For the first time in my life I was feeling a sensation that someone later told me was called curiosity. It was the first and last time I can remember feeling that emotion in my life. Doctors told me double digit IQs usually inhibit most ability to have any sense of curiosity and I probably agree.

Remembering our days as strippers at Appledance, I knew Barbalay liked to keep her special items tucked away in a pouch on her panties that was between her vagina and butt, because it rubbed her area down there raw while she walked and moved around, which was something she really liked. I pulled her pants down and found her genital region still mostly intact. The panties were in one piece and I saw the pouch. In the pouch was a folded up piece of paper and two cigarettes with a lighter and extra bottle of lighter fluid. She knew how to cram it in. I unfolded the paper and read it.

“Barb,

“It’s been a couple months since I last talked to your parents, and I haven’t spoken to you in an even longer time. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to visit you in prison, but I heard the good news from your cousins that you’re about to be released and the second trial went well. I’m so happy to hear this, and in celebration of this I want to pass along some good news to you. Unfortunately there is also bad news associated with this news, but that can be remedied promptly.

“As luck would have it, the woman responsible for the crime that put you in jail years ago is living here in NYC. She was briefly a patient of mine. When I realized who she was, which wasn’t hard considering how your description of her was extremely accurate, I made a plan to devastate her. Plus, how many women are actually named Lady? Not many, I can tell you. I’m a doctor and I know these things, because I went to Harvard, or Yale, or Princeton. She was the first person I’ve ever met named Lady. Well, Barb, her full name is Lady Molasses and I now have her home address. She came down with rabies a little while ago and wanted me to help her. I knew that I had to let her die for what she did do you, my most precious of nieces. Instead of helping her with her disgusting disease I told her to just wait it out, knowing that in a short period of time she would die in pain. This is all of the good news.

“The bad news is that an old colleague of mine by the name of Diarrhea Jackson helped her and treated her. I don’t know what he did, but he called me to let me know she was alive and well, and that her rabies had been cured. I let him know this upset me and told him why I wanted her dead, but he said that was tactless of me.

“But all is not lost. I have made plans to help you, and will buy you a plane ticket out here so that we can get to work on what it is we must do to this woman. I know her address and I know she lacks any trace of intelligence. If you are still as thirsty for revenge as your parents and cousins have told me you are, I hope you consider this and take me up on my offer. If you remember my house, which you and your family visited many years ago, it is still very large and resplendent as ever. You may stay here in any of the 9 bed rooms, or even in my basement where I keep the dolls your aunt and I have been collecting for several decades. We have constructed a fairy-tale-esque scene of fantastic romance and elaborate dramatic activity involving all 8,720 of our dolls. I don’t know if you still play with dolls, Barb, but if you do, please refrain from touching these dolls because they’re very expensive, rare, and delicate. You can bring your own dolls if you need to have a play time. But you’re old now, Barb, and I don’t think you play with dolls anymore. You were a stripper for God-sakes. Please don’t bring cocaine into our home.

Love, Uncle Diarrhea Johnson.

“P.S. I’ve included Lady’s home address and a recent photograph of her. I’m sorry it’s a fuzzy image, and from so far away. I’m also sorry she’s masturbating in it, but pretty much all the pictures are the same because that appears to be the only thing she does all day.”

I wasn’t surprised. I should have known Diarrhea Johnson would be talking to Barbalay. But maybe she didn’t come to kill me, and wanted to make out with me and tell me about how fun prison was. I could have told her how I went to jail, too, and told her about the friends I made in there. She probably made 50 times as many friends as I did because she was a pretty girl and had delicious tits I could dream about all day. I would have been able to show her the peppermint and candycane tricks I learned in jail! She probably already knew all about them, though, because most new things start out in either New York City or Los Angeles. I bet her and I learned about them at the same time. The power of astrology was probably pretty strong with us. The stars were with us.

Because I didn’t know exactly why she came over, I just guessed that she probably came to patch things up between us. After all, I had sent her a letter apologizing for everything that happened. Hadn’t I? I was pretty sure I remembered writing her a letter at some point trying to apologize for getting her put in jail. I was sure I sent it, but I didn’t feel like checking.

“What did you find there, Lady?” Claudia squawked at me like a rat pretending to be a bird.

“Nothing, wrong number,” I said quickly. I was covered. I stuffed the note into my purse and ran out the door, yelling, “I have dreams to catch! Bye!”

On the bus to Mark’s neighborhood I thought about the note. I also thought about getting a tan, buying some shoes, wearing a skirt, sucking a dick, finger fucking a Chinese woman, eating out of a human skull with my sons, and listening to Spin Doctors. Then I thought about my website. I thought about how great it was going to be to have my pictures on every internet in the world for every person to see and enjoy. I got a little wet thinking about charging money to let people see these pictures, so I had to stop thinking about it when I got a little bit too wet and started drip-drip-dripping into a blind man’s coffee cup. He took a few sips and started whistling and humming a neat tune that I wish I could remember. He began giggling, and everyone around him was laughing because he was such a silly man. I love silly men because they are fun and have delicious tasting penises when taste is most important.

At Mark’s house I was thinking about my dream coming true again, and asked him to fuck me because I was getting so wet and excited. He slapped me on the ass and told me to put a sock in it and to focus on the mission. Pretending to go to the bathroom, I really walked into his bedroom to steal a few socks from his dresser to stick into my pussy. It sopped up the soaking mess very fast. Mark’s advice is something I always valued.

We hopped in Mark’s minivan and went to his friend’s place. The guy’s name was Lamp Post and he lived in a shitty apartment in the middle of a shithole street where kids ran around drinking beers and hitting each other with sticks, and every now and then you’d see a dog and a chicken going at it with teeth and beaks. After Mark introduce me he said he had to leave to run some errands but would be back to pick me up later that night. I was glad he did this, because I feel comfortable around strange men I don’t know.

Lamp Post told me he was a high ranking member of the internet and could do just about anything that was possible with the technology of the day. He asked to see the pictures so I pulled them out and showed him what I looked like as a naked child.

After grinning and looking at the photos for a long silent few minutes, he looked me up and down and said, “I like these. I like these a lot.” He was drooling, but tried to make it not appear obvious.

“Thanks, Mr. Post. Do you think we can make a good website with those?”

“I think so, Ms. Molasses. I’ll have to check with the internet first, though, to see if it wants to accept them.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everything has to be checked and approved by the internet before it can be uploaded.”

“What is uploaded?”

“Uploaded means that I take the pictures to the copy center and make hi-res duplicates and have them digitized, that’s just a fancy word for “made digital”, and then convert them to GIFs and JPEGS and anything else we can think of and send them through the ISP to the loading bay. From there we can host the pictures for anyone to see.”

“This sounds so complicated,” I said. “I’m glad you’re helping me. I didn’t even know about the internet a little while ago. I still feel like this is all happening so fast.”

“I’m a professional.”

“I know! Mark said you were the best.”

“I am the greatest.”

“How long will all of that take?”

Lamp Post looked at his watch. He stared at it for a minute and started counting very quietly. “It will take a few minutes today and a few more minutes tomorrow.”

“OK, good! Then the website will be finished?”

“Oh no, not yet. We still need to make the interface, and digitize the thing Mark drew up for your greeting page. I have some cool graphics I want to use on this, kind of some experimental stuff, ya know?”

“Cool!” I was pretty excited.

“Say, Lady, you ever been married?” Lamp Post asked.

“No, never.”

“You very good with a gun?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t tried.”

“What do you think of cops?”

“They’re alright.”

“What’s the biggest gun you’ve ever seen?”

“Probably a shot gun this one guy had, it was like ten feet long.”

“I have a bigger gun than that. I also have cannons and a few bombs. I’ve killed people.”

“That’s so cool, Lamp. You’re a cool guy.”

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

“Maybe.”

“Have you ever had sex?” He asked.

I giggled. “Yes, Lamp.  Have you?”

“Not with a lady.”

“I’ve never had sex with a lamp post,” I replied.

“You looked pretty good in those pictures you showed me. Do you still look that good when you’re naked?”

“Some people think I look better, now.”

“I wanna see for myself.”

“I wanna show you.”

“Lady, I’m getting’ awful hard. Have you ever worked on a farm?”

“I sure have, Lamp Post. Have you?”

“Still do,” he said.

“Can we go there sometime? To the farm?”

“If I think you can handle it, sure.”

“Why wouldn’t I be able to handle it?”

“You’ve never been in a gun fight with a cop before. When that happens,  you’ll be ready.”

“Oh my. What kind of farm is it?”

“It’s a standard Kentucky farm in New York. Only thing is, I’m an outlaw and the pigs don’t like me farmin’.”

“You ever consider getting rid of the pigs? Selling them?”

“I get rid of them all the time, they keep comin’ back and tryin’ to shut me down.”

“They eat all your food?”

“More like they burn down my barns and steal my crops, try to take me to jail and serve justice where it ain’t welcome.”

“I’ve never heard of pigs doing that.”

“You don’t know New York cops very well, do you?”

“What do they have to do with pigs?”

Lamp was silent for a moment, then lit a cigarette and opened a can of Bud Light and offered me some. I emptied the can into my stomach.

“Lady,” Lamp said, “while we wait on the internet confirming and approving and caching your data, you wanna make me forget all about the pigs for a second?”

“Sure,” I said. “How?”

“You wanna put your mouth on my penis and send me good vibrations?”

“I thought you’d never ask. Do you like candycanes?”

“Fucking love them.”

Lamp lied down on his couch, stapled two of my photos to the palms of his hands and prepped his member for my face hole. I rubbed my tongue along my teeth to moisten them up for their first candycane in ages.

“Special delivery for Lamp Post,” I said, crawling onto the couch, on top of him.

“Single or double serving of secret sauce?” he asked.

“Double,” I said, going down.

Chapter 17. She Brings the Rain

“Thrice daily bowel movements are a sign of wealth and gluttony,” Lamp Post said to me when I walked out of the bathroom a few moments after swallowing what he called a secret sauce.

“I didn’t poop,” I told him. “I was just washing my face.”

“Pretty Lady, you don’t need to clean your face. I know what you were doin’ in there and I find it attractive. That means ya got money. It also means ya got a healthy appetite and don’t mind using a stranger’s toilet. I heard the sounds, I could hear the splashes in my toilet.”

I blushed, and admitted I had committed a movement of my bowels while using his bathroom, but I didn’t see why it was important.

“How often you think you poop in a day, Lady? Be honest.”

“A few times.”

“More than twice?” he asked.

“Oh lord, yes.”

Lamp grinned and nodded, then looked back at his computer screen. He was doing things that I couldn’t understand, even if I tried. He was typing and clicking, and it was all like magical hocus pocus to me that would never make sense even to someone who was both a doctor and a wizard with an associate’s degree in paleontology. His smartness was breathtaking.

I sat on his couch while he tinkered away with his internet work and noticed a couple of magazines sticking to the wall above my head. I peeled them quietly from the wall and noticed they were stuck by what could only be dried semen. They were porno magazines, but the pages that were stuck to the wall weren’t very arousing. I didn’t read the writing, but I guessed it was a story submitted by a reader… you know, amateur fantasy porno writing.

I paged through the pages and noticed none of the women had pube bushes like mine, which made me a little bit insecure about what was going on beneath my denim.

“Lady, I have some great news to share with you,” Lamp said, turning around in his swivel chair. But as soon as he saw me holding his magazines he jumped from his chair and tackled me off of the couch and ripped them from my hands.

“You don’t touch these, OK!?” he yelled in my face. “Did you take these off my wall? Why would you do that? They were on the wall for a reason! I don’t go into your home and terrorize you!”

“I’m… I’m sorry, Lamp! I didn’t know.”

He turned to the sticky pages and stuck the magazines back to the wall. “That’s dried semen,” he whispered, then sat back down in his chair.

I stood up and walked to the window, to look out into the cold, rainy night while I spoke to Lamp.

“Lamp,” I began, softly. “I don’t understand. They were just magazines. It was just a wall. I’m sorry, but I don’t see the big deal. Just hurry up and put my website online so I can get out of here. I won’t bother you anymore.”

“You don’t see the big deal?” he asked. He stopped typing again, and walked over to stand behind me as I gazed out of the window, into the brick wall not far from the window, and the graffiti that covered it.

“Lady, the semen in those pages is my semen. It came from the same place that the semen that you choked down your throat ten minutes ago came from.”

“So what?” I asked. I wasn’t understanding.

“Lady, every sperm is sacred. Don’t you know this? God tells us that each sperm inside us men is a sacred life that must be respected and honored. When we spill that semen onto the ground, or onto the lips of a woman, or into the whiskers of a grandfather, we are sending the sperms into certain death. It is no better than murder, and we should be ashamed for it. I have been conflicted by this realization most of my adult life, and sometimes I can’t overcome the temptation to spill my seed even though I know I am murdering my own children.”

Lamp’s words were harsh, but I could tell they were filled with truth. A single tear fell from my eye, and made its way down my cheek to my chin. I was glad Lamp couldn’t see my face, so I would continue looking at the graffiti covered wall outside for the rest of our conversation.

“I like sex and I like women,” Lamp explained. “I sometimes buy magazines that are made for men like me, and I really get into them. But I lose control and I commit murder all over their pages, creating a sperm genocide that fills me with a sadness nothing else can match. I’m not gonna lie to ya. I get shameful. I go into denial, and I pretend that what I’ve done isn’t so bad. I pray real hard but it doesn’t work. The sperm are still dead. But in a last ditch effort to hide my shameful actions from God, I stick these magazines to my wall, so God can’t see what I’ve done. These two magazines are examples of that. If you go into my bedroom you’ll see that the whole wall is covered with them. I’ve tried to stop.”

“When I woke up today I told myself, I said ‘Lamp, today you’re not gonna let your young men die. You’re not gonna let murder make its way into your day and you’re not gonna feel bad about anything. Today’s a day for life.’ But I was wrong. As soon as I saw you walk through that door, I had murder on my mind. I knew I would commit spermicide and it hurt me. But I hid my pain and my knowing with a smile. I wanted to know you both personally and biblically. I have now known you in both ways, and feel better for it. But I cannot undo what I have done. I have unloaded my boys into your mouth, and they’ve fallen into your stomach where they will die slowly in your acids. Right now they’re dying, they’re screaming silent screams of pain. They’re crying for help. That help won’t come, Lady.”

“Haha, come!” I said. “I get it.”

“This isn’t a joke,” he told me. “You can’t feel it, but inside of you are a million dying souls. The only enjoyment I get from life is knowing that one day I will die and see my little babies in Heaven, and be with the millions of them for the rest of eternity. I’ve considered suicide often, Lady. I think about it almost every day, and think about visiting my dead young ones in the land beyond the veil of death. I hope, Lady, when we’re done with your website, you will come with me to my farm and help me defend it from the pigs and then help me end my life in solitude.”

“This is a lot to handle right now,” I responded.

“I know it is. Don’t make up your mind right now, I’m going to finish working on your website for the day, and then we can talk about it some more.”

“I really don’t even want to talk about it at all,” I said. “I like farms and stuff, but I don’t want to go back to one. I’m a city girl, Lamp.”

“Sometimes,” Lamp said softly, into my ear, “I cry while I masturbate. But the tears become so numerous that I gather them into a cup and use them for lubrication of my penis. It makes the stroking easier, and I think it’s God telling me that it’s alright to do what I am doing because it feels good. And I remember it’s a sin to masturbate, because feeling good is horribly sinful. But that doesn’t stop me. I find that God sends me mixed messages about what I do, and that hurts me even more. If he loves me, why does he confuse me?”

“I… don’t know, Lamp.”

He walked back to the computer while I continued to stare out the window. Lamp was just one of those geniuses who was unusual, I decided. There’s nothing wrong with that.

“What was that great news?” I asked.

“Never you mind, now,” he said. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Sorry if I upset you.”

He was silent for a little while longer.

“Do you know how to work a record player?” Lamp finally asked. “I have some records over there on the shelf and I want you to play some while I work. Pick out whatever you want to listen to. It helps me calm down and concentrate. It also prevents God from hearing all of my thoughts.”

I remembered using the record player my parents had when I was a little kid, so I ran over to the shelf excitedly to see what he had. No Spin Doctors on his shelf, so I didn’t really give a shit about what  else he had on there. I pulled off a random record and put it on the player.

“Alright, Lady! Good stuff. CAN IS THE STUFF OF DREAMS!”

I didn’t know what it was, it was just some stupid thing that wasn’t Spin Doctors.

“Lady, sit down on the couch again. Let’s get high.”

“Alright,” I said. Getting high was something I could appreciate.

While the music played we smoked from Lamp’s large bong that he pulled from his bedroom. As we smoked, he told me more about God and semen, and how his passion for the internet was the only thing that kept him connected to the world in which people lived. I asked him, then, about the world in which people did not live. I asked him about his farm.

“The farm, it’s been in my family for half a century. My pa gave it to me when he moved away to Asia after trouble with the Feds here in the states. I’ve had it for ten years. I grow lots of things at the farm, most of them bein’ illegal and conducive to alternate states of consciousness. Ever since I got the place I’ve been wantin’ a woman to live with me, to help me with the plowing of the fields, the care of the plants, and the upkeep of its finer aspects like barn architecture and the rest.”

“When I invited three ladies over for a weekend, to see which I would keep in the bond of marriage, and which I would forget, they found they weren’t too keen on my substance growth. In fact, they didn’t even know much about farming, it seems.”

“Lamp,” I interrupted. “I don’t mean to interrupt your story, but what’s going on with the website?”

“Oh, Lady, don’t worry. It’s all uploading now.”

“Already?” I asked.

“Yeah, man.”

“Oh. Well, then tell me more about your farm.”

“The ladies fled from my farmland and told the cops what I was up to, also said something about me raising humans for an underground sex slave ring, which isn’t true.”

“It isn’t? That’s good.”

“It’s a little true. Not so true that I should suffer for it, though.”

“…Interesting…”

“Anyway, ever since then I’ve been having trouble with police coming to my door, trying to check out my shit, get into my fuckin’ house and invade my space. So I shoot them. I fight because I’m a fighter. No one’s gonna defend what I have, so I do it. I fight and also create. I grow life at my farm, and ingest it in my body to fulfill my psychedelic desires. I experiment with my swarm of human sex slaves that I may or may not have, and spend the day in nirvana.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” I said. I really just think some geniuses are different than regular people.

“I need the woman I make my wife to be well trained with firearms, too,” he explained. “When it comes time to fight off the police and feds, a time which comes many times a week, we will need to use all of the firepower I have in my collection. I’ve stockpiled ammunition for years in a bunker my great-grandfather built under the barn in 1933.”

“Lamp, this all sounds really romantic. I hope you can find a woman good enough for you someday. Say, why do you come into the city like this? Don’t the cops come after you in the city?”

“The pigs don’t know what I look like, Lady. When I’m not at the farm they can’t come by stealing my things, because they don’t have the right.” He was getting tense, and lit a cigarette. “My farm is off limits to cops when I’m not there.”

I didn’t ask why this was true, I just let Lamp talk to me. I liked listening to his voice, and he had a way with words.

“I come into the city because that’s where the people are,” he said. “It’s where the cops are. Someone once told me the best cover is to hide out in the open, around your enemies.”

“The people are your enemies?”

“No. The people make life interesting – law enforcement are my enemy. They’re everyone’s enemy, really. They’re your enemy, too. Sometimes it just takes a while to see it. I do different kinds of work, Lady. The work I do at my farm is personal work, things that make my life worth living. The work I do in the city is work that gives me money. It lets me afford my lifestyle. It’s this duality that makes me whole, see. I require a place in the city where I can do my work. I’m trying to make it big on the internet, and your little project here might be my ticket. I’d like to one day get out of this apartment and own a bigger place, like a whole building, a fortress. A place I can base my internet operations, and create an empire.”

“How much does a building cost? Do you think you’ll buy one soon?”

“Lots, Lady. Millions. I’ll never have that kind of money. But we can always hope your website changes that, and makes us rich.”

Lamp worked into the night on the computer, and I lied on the couch telling him about my summer with the Spin Doctors on their American tour. He showed very little interest in my stories but I told him anyway. I got to the part about taking my childhood pictures from my parents’ house and he interrupted me.

“Mark says the colors on this flag represent blood, shit, and piss. That’s pretty funny, Lady, I gotta say.” He stuck the flag mock-up Mark gave him to the side of his computer monitor.

“Thanks, Lamp!” I said. I didn’t know why it was funny, it was just reality. Those colors are who I am and I wasn’t ashamed.

There was a knock at the door, and Lamp pulled a pistol out of his desk and ran to stand by the door, looking through the peep hole.

“Is that you, Mark!?” he yelled.

“Yeah, Lamp, it’s me,” I heard Mark yell from outside.

“You sure?” Lamp asked.

“Pretty sure, man,” Mark replied.

“OK, I’m letting you in.” Lamp opened the door slowly, and stuffed the gun into the top of his pants. “Hi, Mark.”

Mark walked in and waved to me. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I said.

“You guys coming back tomorrow?” Lamp asked.

“I guess we could,” Mark said. “How’s the webpage coming along?”

“Pretty good, pretty good. I have it uploaded and am working on the uplinks. It’s pretty tough stuff, but I can get it taken care of tomorrow.”

“Good to hear,” Mark said. “Well, let’s get outta here, Lady.”

We left, and I waved goodbye to my new friend Lamp.

“Did he rape you at all?” Mark asked, as he was driving me home.

“What? No! Why?”

“No reason. Lamp’s just a weird guy. Did you notice?”

“I noticed, but I think he’s interesting and charming. It’s probably because he’s really smart and you’re not used to smart people.”

“I know smart people. Lamp’s not that smart, he just knows how to use the internet and make webpages. He spends a lot of time at his farm doing God-knows-what.”

“Yes, he said God knows most of what he is doing.”

Mark laughed. “See? I don’t hang out with him much, anymore.”

“I don’t think he likes your band,” I said. “He has lots of records but nothing by the Spin Doctors.”

“That’s fine, I don’t care. If he liked us I’d think there was something wrong with us. Our music is for normal, boring people, anyway.”

“That’s why I love you guys,” I said. I closed my eyes and slept all the way back to Mark’s place. It was raining out, so the rain made it easier to sleep. It didn’t make it easier to hold my pee inside of myself while I was still awake.

Mark let me sleep at his place that night, since he said he thought we would be going back to see Lamp Post the next morning. This time, he said, we wouldn’t stay long because he had a band practice to get to. Sometimes I forgot the Spin Doctors had to practice and hadn’t been born with the natural gifts and talent of songs.

“Here are some mushrooms,” Mark said. “They’ll help you sleep, or maybe help us get fucked and dream away the night as we turn into a silent spiral of cosmic dust.”

I ate some, and he ate some. We sat in his living room, staring at the walls for a few moments as the minutes soared past our ears.

The images of me as a naked child danced into my head, and I couldn’t help but be turned on by them as Mark spread himself out on the ground and smiled at the ceiling. I saw Lamp Post’s sperm cells flying through a fine mist, seeking out my naked images, and landing hard on the Polaroid film, dying slowly as the seminal fluids dried up around them, encrusting the film and staining the colors with a residue of death. My images came to life, and me as a child touched the sperm and wept as it slowly died on an impenetrable shielding in front of me. Lamp’s juices flew naturally through the air, carrying more doomed sperm onto my childhood memories. The sperm and me-as-a-young-girl embraced, and danced a slow and melancholy dance of passion and desire.

The red, yellow and brown flag that represented my three basic elements raised into the air above the dancing  sperms and my multiple selves. It blew in the wind while more sperm flew through the air, some of which splashed onto it, and some of which splashed onto the already-dancing photos already covered in the juice. The flag fell from its pole and landed on the imaginary dance floor, while the dancers danced over  it. The colors separated and took the form of what it was they represented – blood, piss and shit.

I was watching a few dozen of my eight year old self dance with dying, drying sperm, over a blanket of blood, urine and feces, and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Soon, my eight year old selves began rolling in the substances, covering themselves in all forms of splatter and mess. They were eating it, licking it up, and still choking the sperm cells as they dried out. They tried to smear the sperm through the urine to get them wet, but it only killed them faster. It was both adorable and tragic.

Mushrooms made my night a night of magic.

Chapter 18. Whiskey, Bullets, and Semen

I took a shower in the morning while Mark called Lamp Post about us coming over to check on his internet progress. As the hot water washed away the grime of my day with Lamp, I thought about what it would be like to be an internet star. I didn’t know much about the internet aside from what Lamp and Mark had shown me in a few intense sessions, but it seemed like a place I could call home after my pictures were a big hit. I needed attention and I was pretty sure the internet was designed to give me that attention.

While I was getting dressed Mark walked in on me in the nude to tell me he couldn't get a hold of Lamp Post.

“I can’t get a hold of Lamp Post.”

“Did you call him on the phone?”

“I called him on the phone and left messages.”

“I can’t think of anything better!”

“I know!”

“What should we do?”

“I’ve exhausted our options, Lady. There’s nothing left to do.”

“What if we drive to his place to check on him?”

“Now that’s a great idea,” Mark said, nodding.

We hopped in his car and drove over to Lamp’s place.

I couldn’t wait to see how far the website had come since the night before. I could almost imagine myself clicking away on the internet to explore the webpage like I explore a new friend’s body with both sets of lips and my sixth sense.

Mark knocked on the door for a few minutes until we got tired of waiting.

“Lamp! It’s Mark and Lady. Open the door!”

There was no answer, so Mark fashioned a key out of his shoe laces and opened the door. We walked in to be hit in the face by strange smells and more moisture than was usual. Mark noticed there was a thick coat of white goo on the walls that was still wet, but he didn’t dare touch it. I didn’t mind touching it, and moved my fingers along the wall as globs of the white goo collected around my finger tips and dripped to the floor as I walked.

“Lamp!” Mark shouted. “Are you home, buddy?”

There was no answer. We were getting worried. Mark was worried because his friend wasn’t here, and something seemed to be wrong. I was worried because my website wasn’t going to build itself. 

I went to Lamp’s desk where his computer was sitting, and where he was always getting his work done when he wasn’t committing sexual invasions of my delicate flesh. My pile of naked pictures was gone from the desk. Something stood out to me, though. There was a group of post-it notes stuck to the computer keyboard.

“Mark, I think I found something.”

“What?”

“Notes. I bet they’re from Lamp.”

“What do they say?”

“Come over and read them,” I said. I just didn’t feel like reading anything at the time.

Mark walked over to me and stared at the notes, reading them aloud.

“Hi Mark, hi Lady,

You’ve probably broken into my home by now to look for me. You’ve also probably noticed that I’ve covered the walls in semen and have left out a couple ice cream sundaes with cherries and a special red blood sauce made straight from Lady’s menstrual juices. Hope they’re delicious. I’m sorry that I can’t be there right now, but the police have more or less honed in on my location, and I think they’re pretty close to finding my apartment. You both need to hurry up and finish eating those sundaes and get out of there fast, because if the police show up and find you there with that computer and all of those pictures of  a naked little girl, you’ll probably both end up in jail. I’ve fled because I don’t want to end up there as well. I have worse crimes to worry about, and the police won’t throw me into some cockfighting minimum security jail for sexual deviants like you guys. No. I’ll be going to maximum security, and I’ll probably get the electric chair. I would put my location in this note to you, but I don’t want the pigs to find it and track me down.

I wish I could keep working on your website, Lady. It’s been a great project and it’s kept my mind busy while my fingers play and sparkle. Making your dreams come true is important to me, and it’s very satisfying. I hope that when this all blows over I can return and finish the website if you haven’t found someone else to do it by then. Please don’t remove the semen from the walls. It’s there for a reason. The cops will have a hard time getting a tight grip on my whereabouts with all of that semen soaking the joint. Now hurry  up and shove the rest of that ice cream down your gullets and get out of there before trouble really hits.

Signed in Blood,

Lamp Post.”

He wrote “signed in blood” but it wasn’t signed in blood, just the same blue pen he used to write the letter. Mark and I hadn’t noticed the ice cream sundaes he’d left out, so while Mark stood there looking at the note and exploring the contents of Lamp’s desk, I went to find them in the kitchen.

The ice cream was set out in two bowls on the kitchen counter, each with spoons already stuck in them. He wasn’t lying about the red sauce. I tasted it to be sure it was my own blood, and it certainly was. This was very considerate of him, and even a little bit romantic. In another life I could have seen myself running away with Lamp and taking him up on his offer to be his wife. But not here, not in this life. As I ate the melting ice cream and slurped the red blood sauce up, I started to think about what Mark had said. He said it while he had been reading Lamp’s letter. This was because Lamp wrote it in his letter. It was something about getting out of his apartment because the cops would be here soon to bust whoever it was they could find with the computer full of child porn.

I did a little quick math in my head, added two and two, subtracted infinity, and divided by eternity… the answer was there. I couldn't do math, but it felt right.

“Mark!” I shouted.

“What?” he answered from the living room, still standing by Lamp’s desk.

“I’ve figured it out.”

“Figured what out?”

“I don’t know, Mark. But I know we have to get out of here soon. Something’s not right.”

“I know. Lamp’s gone, and here we are with his computer full of child porn. Pictures of you… naked… as a kid… We’re in danger.”

“We have to leave!” I ran out of the kitchen, threw the ice cream to the floor and jumped at the desk. I pulled the computer monitor from its mess of cords and ran with it toward the door.

“Whoa! Lady, what are you doing?” Mark shouted. He looked worried.

“Mark, I’m getting out of here and I’m taking the evidence with me.”

“Lady, there are a lot of ways that doesn’t make sense. I don’t even know what’s going on in your head, but getting out of here is the right idea. I am sure Lamp is safe wherever he is, but we can’t hang around much longer. Danger surrounds us.”

“Semen surrounds us, Mark.” I had to correct him because he was arrogant and I wasn’t going to have it. Not at a time like this.

“You’re right. Let’s get out of here.” For some reason, Mark picked up the rest of the computer and followed me out the door. “You can drop the monitor, now, Lady.”

“What monitor?”

He pointed to the thing I was carrying.

“You mean the computer TV?”

“Yes, Lady. The computer TV. We don’t need it.”

“I guess you’re right. Once the cops look into it and see all my pictures we’ll be long gone. They won’t recognize me after all these years. Do you think they’ll recognize me?”

“Don’t worry about that, just drop it and let’s get out of here.”

We got back to Mark’s car just as a whole team of police cars and SWAT vans pulled up to the apartment complex. There were 10 cars and two vans, and police and SWAT men jumped out and swarmed toward the building. Mark shoved the computer into the back seat and we got into our seats.

I wanted to divert any attention from us that the cops may have focused on us, so I shouted, “Nothing to see here, officers!” and waved my hands at them to tell them that they could be on their way and continue attacking the apartment building.

Mark smacked me in the mouth and threw me into the car. “Lady! Shut your fucking mouth and sit down!”

But my plan didn’t go so well and somehow the cops gave us more attention than we had wanted. A few officers walked over to our car with their pistols drawn. I buckled up and told Mark I was sorry.

The cops motioned for Mark to roll his window down, but he decided not to do it. Instead, he pushed the pedal down as far as it would go and we raced out of there at top speed.

I screamed like a naked girl with raisins spilling out of my twat into a barrel of tequila for a Mother’s day Christmas feast, which reminded me that I no longer had a mother. But it didn’t matter right now, my adrenaline was kicking in and we were going too fast for the little sadness of life to get me down.

“Hold on, we’re going to die,” Mark yelled.

I looked behind us and some of the police had jumped in their cars to chase us.

“This is so exciting, Mark! It’s a police chase! But it’s real life, not like in a movie!”

“In real life people die, Lady!” he shouted.

“I don’t even know what that means, but I like it!” I shouted back.

Mark turned on the radio, and luckily for us a Spin Doctors song came blaring on. It was my favorite song, Two Princes. It made the perfect police-chase-getaway soundtrack for our high-speed adventure. Mark and I looked at each other, French kissed, and then looked forward onto the road, as he swerved in and out of traffic, between cars, onto sidewalks, and under bridges that were probably there for show more than anything. The rumble of the engine throughout the car was so powerful and heavy that I experienced a new kind of orgasm multiple times while we raced away from the police. I slid my hand into my pants while my seat vibrated violently, and each bump we hit, whether it was a sidewalk, a pedestrian, or a speed bump, sent new waves of excitement through my body. Each quaking wave of lust and desire traveling through me blasted me into a blind orgasm so that my senses only told me what I wanted to know. One of those things I wanted to know was that we were still being chased, because this added to the stimulation.

Mark pulled a bottle of bourbon out of his glove box and told me to drink it. I did. It tasted like heaven, and made my orgasmic shivers more fluid and somehow also more liquid. The police lights still flashed in the mirrors, and they were getting closer. But as I drank each gulp of bourbon, it seemed like their intensity died down a little bit, and we seemed a little safer. I took my pants off to remind myself that I still had my freedom. I took off my shirt for the same reason. But my panties and bra both came off for other reasons. I was now silently protesting the police in the comfort of Mark’s car while I drank and listened to the Spin Doctors. Rebellion never felt so good and so meaningful. Lamp Post would have been proud, I imagined. Wherever our chase took us, maybe we’d end up the same as Lamp Post.

Maybe we’d end up free and happy, riding through the epicenter of an earthquake of liberty as the pigs died behind us. It was entirely possible. I finished the bottle of bourbon and threw it into the road, watching it smash to pieces in our wake, shredding only a few tires of the police. It was going to take more firepower to fend them off. But I knew we’d win, even if we  had to ride until dusk. By dawn, we’d be free again. Until  then, I let the drinks inside of me whisper promises of survival as the bullets whizzed by our car.

Mark and I looked at each other once more. This time, instead of French kissing, we high-fived, and we nodded at one another.

“Keep holding on,” Mark said. “They have to run out of bullets eventually.”

Chapter 19. A Forest 

I woke up in the middle of the night in the backseat of the car. It wasn’t moving and after a quick peak into the front, it appeared Mark was gone.  After a few moments of thinking, the last thing I could remember was us running from the police and finishing off the bourbon. The headache I had wasn’t a standard bourbon headache, though, and felt like a vodka turnover had snuck its way into my diet at some point in the day. There weren’t any clues in the car so I climbed out and fell onto my face in some sharp rocks and tall grass. I stayed there, rolled over onto my back, and looked up to see the full moon over my head. What a sight a full moon is when you don’t know where you are or how you got there. While staring into the moon’s cheese eyes I whistled my favorite song, another Spin Doctors classic, which brought Mark out of the closest forest with something dragging behind him.

He walked over to the car and dropped whatever it was he was dragging. “Do you ever get tired of not being able to remember anything, Lady?” he asked. He sounded a little angry.

“What? I remember. I remember everything. We’re looking for Lamp.”

“I really doubt you remember anything at all. How’s your head?”

“Head’s fine, Mark. I don’t feel anything, especially not your judgment rays from your eyes.”

He shook his head and dragged the large thing into the car. He was whistling his favorite Spin Doctors song, too. The same one I was whistling.

After laying on my back for what seemed like minutes, I stood up and stumbled to the car. “Why don’t you tell me what I don’t remember, then, hot shot?” I asked him.

He turned and looked at me. “I have nothing to say right now.”

I knew he wanted to flirt with me right here under the moon, but Mark usually does his flirting with his penis. This is why he wouldn’t say anything, and I knew it. So I poked at his flirtstick with my fingers, knowing the probing would turn him on.

“Quit touching my dick right now, Lady. I’m cleaning up your mistakes and getting sick of your behavior.” He slapped my hand away. “The beast within you is out of control.”

“What’s that mean? A beast? In me? Yeah right. You’ve got your cookies mixed in with your gravy, mister.”

He closed the trunk to the car and got into the driver’s seat. I watched him from the passenger side window while he tilted his seat back and closed his eyes.

“You sleeping, Mark?”

“I am. You should be, too. Get back in the car and go to sleep. Tomorrow I’ll drop you off and I can get home.”

“Where you gonna drop me off?”

“Goodnight.”

“Mark! Where are you dropping me off?”

“Get in the car and go to sleep.”

But hours later I woke up because I had to pee. I went out to the tall grass and leaked my way to comfort before coming back to the car. But while walking back around the car I noticed the trunk was opened a crack, so I had a look inside. What was Mark stuffing in there, anyway? There was a large green bag tied off at two ends, so I had to spend a minute untying them. Once the ropes were off and on the ground I pulled the bag open to find a dead body. So then I screamed.

I got in the car but I didn’t go to sleep. I lied in the back seat with my fingers in my mouth, pushing against the back of my throat like they were cocks. Mark heard me gag and told me to shut up. After that I went to sleep without dreams.

Mark threw open his car door and rolled out of the car onto the rocky  ground. “What? What? Shut up! Lady? What?”

I just kept screaming mostly because it felt good on my voice box.

He put his hand over my mouth and shushed me in the ear.

I quit screaming pretty easily and asked him if the thing I was looking at was a dead body. “Is this thing a dead body?”

“I told you you don’t remember anything. This man is dead because of you.”

“This is a man?” I asked. It looked like a woman, really. It definitely was a woman.

“Yes, and it was a friendly man, too. But he’s dead now, Lady, and  you need to get back in the car and go to sleep. Tomorrow, we have to deal with this.”

“Tell me, now, can ya?” I asked him.

He looked at me for a minute, looked me up and down like he hadn’t seen me clothed and naked a hundred times before, and then said,  “sit down.”

I sat, he talked.

“We ran from the cops for hours. Even after there was no sign of them behind us and we’d crossed the state line, we kept going. You might remember some of that.”

“I don’t,” I said.

“Didn’t think so. The alcohol was gone and you were on the verge of being trashed, and kept telling me to stop at a liquor store so we could keep fighting. We didn’t have time for that and I think deep down you knew that, but you wanted some kind of trouble.”

“OH, excuse me!” I shouted.  I was about to bite Mark right in his face.

“Let me continue,” he said, giving me the Eye of the Silencer. “For an hour I was able to restrain you, but you wouldn’t stop barking like a dog and growling like a lion. The alcohol was in you and you weren’t going to rest until you could get more. Once we passed into New Jersey I stopped at a liquor store and you got a bottle of vodka to hold you over til Pennsylvania. The dog-lion inside of you was being fed by your vodka, Lady. Each hour you grew more unstable. I had cigarettes in the car and you smoked all of them, all 4 boxes. By the time we were in Philadelphia you were telling me to stop so you could find a Blockbuster so you could rent Jurassic Park. We didn’t  have a way to watch it, but when I told you that you snapped. You fucking snapped. You  kicked me hard until I stopped the car. I stopped in the worst possible part of Philadelphia, with the filth just surrounding us while you bitched and moaned at me for something that wasn’t my fault.”

“You jumped out of the car and just ran. It started raining and I considered not coming after you. My body was hurting from your hits so I couldn’t run too fast. I shouted for you to come back for a while but the rain became too heavy and you disappeared.”

“I’m sorry,  Mark,” I said.

“Yeah.. hmm. Ok. So I sat in the car for a few minutes, then tried to drive around to find you. I pulled into an abandoned lot to find you chasing a middle aged dude in circles, begging for him to marry you and take you away. I got out of the car to tackle you, but you were brandishing your empty vodka bottle like a weapon. I asked the man if he’d help me overpower you but as soon as  he saw that you were going to fight me he ran away, seeing his one opportunity and taking it. You attacked me and luckily for me you were too drunk to hit me. I fucking smashed your face a couple times with a brick I found by a trash can, then I threw the trash can at your head which knocked you out for a minute. This gave me enough time to put you in the back of the car and to tie up your hands and feet.”

“I threw you back in the car and then we hit the road again. We traveled into Maryland and got stuck in some even worse weather than what we saw in Philadelphia. You’d regained consciousness but were pretty drunk and on the verge of passing out again anyway, so I felt safe when untying your hands and feet. We found a motel about halfway between Baltimore and Washington D.C., I parked the car and went to get us a room. The desk clerk was a stout little gentleman with gentle hands by the name of Corbin Platters. He introduced himself to me by shaking my hand and then tickling me under the pits. I loved it. When I told him I needed a room for two he said he couldn’t wait to meet the person who’d be staying with me.  When you walked through that front door I really thought he’d change his mind, but the sight of you set him off and he screamed rhymes about his erection and sang poetic words into your face from behind that desk.

“You were too drunk to understand what was going on, but you weren’t too drunk to clap and dance. I took the key and found our room, leaving you and Corbin to get to know one another. I was pretty tired. We’d been on the run almost six hours. I went to sleep even though it wasn’t dark yet. I woke up when it was dark, though, and you weren’t anywhere in the room. I went looking for you and checked the front desk. There was a little sign on the desk that said “be bakk soon – Corbin P.”. I wished there was bell for me to ring because I was in a fucking ringing mood, Lady. You weren’t making our friendship very easy.”

“Sorry, Mark,” I said.

“Shut up, let me finish,” he whined. “I shouted ‘Hello!’ to see if Mr. Platters would answer, and he did, kind of. It sounded like he was screaming for help, so I jumped over the desk to investigate. I opened the door to the back office to find you completely naked, covered in vinegar, sitting on top of little Mr. Corbin Platters. You were passed out, and your ass was over his face, suffocating him. I tried to wrestle you off of him, but in your drunken dream state you fought me, cursed at me, spit on me, and pissed all over the floor. Corbin was pushing your body with all of his might. I found a fire extinguisher which I took to your face, and knocked you off of the poor man.

“He jumped up, short of breath, but didn’t really seem phased by it. You regained consciousness, still drunk, and rose to your feet to attack me. We fought for a little bit but as soon as Corbin started singing again, you were  wooed by his words and green eyes and quit punching me in the head. ‘Thank you, Corbin,’ I mouthed to him. He winked at me, and I could tell he was a true gentleman, with gentle eyes, capable of love. You and him danced, and I watched, unsure of what to do. I knew you’d hurt him. It wouldn’t be the same way a girl hurts a boy when she breaks his heart, but the way a girl hurts a boy when she is drunk and careless and capable only of sharing the gift of pain. I told Corbin to be careful because you were a wild drunk, but he said he loved party girls. You’re the partiest girl I know.”

“Aww. Thanks, Mark!” I said, blushing.

“Not a compliment. But back to the story. It wasn’t  but a matter of minutes before you and Corbin were fucking on a table in the office, and I had to watch. I didn’t want to, let me make that clear. But I knew that if I didn’t, bad things would happen. But you know what? Bad things happened anyway. Corbin told you to feed him your love, and you grabbed his dick, ate his cum, and choked on it until you made a pool of vomit in the back of your throat, and then you spewed it all into his pure, gentle mouth. At first, I think he liked it. When he couldn’t swallow it and you wouldn’t take it back, he didn’t like it anymore. He choked, and  I ran in to try to help. You tackled me and covered me in the vinegar while Corbin choked to death. He died, Lady. He died on that table. I freaked out and slapped you eight times before I was able to stay cool and collected. I made you put your clothes back on while I found garbage bags to hide Corbin’s body. You wouldn’t put them on so I had to hit you in the head with the fire extinguisher again, which knocked you out. I dressed you, dressed Corbin in garbage bags, and dragged you both out to the car so we could get the fuck out of there.

“I drove for a little while longer, but started to hear a muffled sound in the backseat. You were in the front seat and the garbage bags with Corbin inside of them were in the back seat. I pulled over and looked back. I ripped open the bag covering Corbin’s face and he was puking up the semen and vomit that you’d given him earlier. He was alive! I freed him from the bags and he asked what was going on. I tried to explain what had happened, but he started freaking out, saying that I was kidnapping him and planning to molest him. There was no molestation on my mind, I assured him of that. He wouldn't listen, but when he saw you in the front seat, he smiled and started singing again. You wouldn’t wake up. I told him to just sit tight and I’d take him back to the motel, but he insisted that we keep driving so he could sing to you while you slept.”

“He sounds so sweet,” I said.

“He was. A sweet motherfucker. He sang and I drove. I didn’t know where to go, but he said we couldn’t go back to the motel because he was being kept there as a slave and could now be free. This was a pretty sad story and he ended up telling me a very long and interesting story about how he ended up as a slave when he was working in Russia as a boy. Really a very sad story. But I kept driving west and told him that we were running away from something of our own. I never told him what it was, though. To be honest, Lady, I don’t even know what we’re running from. You and your big mouth is why we’re running in the first place.”

“You used to love my big mouth,” I smiled.

“Shut it. Corbin said he had a sister who lived in West Virginia who could help us out. I asked him how and he used a bunch of legal-sounding lawyer talk. I’m a rock star, not a lawyer, so I took his word for it. Corbin had the gentlest way with words, which you’d know if you’d been sober at all. So we drove. Drove for a few more hours into West Virginia, into some woods. Corbin sang songs the entire way, so it really wasn’t a bad trip. You see where we are now, Lady? You see this area, the middle of the woods? This is where we stopped. We stopped here and Corbin said his sister lived deep within the woods and would be happy to accommodate us and help us with our legal problems. I was getting my hopes up. But then the worst thing in the world happened. As we were trying to pull you out of the car, you woke up. You woke up and ruined everything. When you saw Corbin you jumped at him. Being the playful motherfucker he was, he started giggling the gentlest giggle, and wanted you to chase him. You chased him into the woods, and I followed both of you because I hoped he’d lead us to his sister. You jumped on him, though, and muffled his screams with your muff. You attacked him with all your sexual energy, and I know how vicious your sexual energy is.

“I let the both of you go at it for a bit, assuming when you were finished Corbin would take us to his sister. But that didn’t happen because you killed Corbin. You killed him right when his sister was walking through the woods and found you guys fucking. You know how he died, Lady? You snapped his neck when trying to make him into a one person sixty-nine. You fucking bitch. His sister saw this and got really angry. She didn’t cry or anything, but she called you a cunt. I tried to explain that you were drunk and that you are a wild party girl, though she didn’t care.

Corbin’s sister was kind, though, and she helped me take you back to the car. Then we knocked you out and threw you in there. I went back with her to find Corbin and we hung out in the woods for a while, smoking pot and talking about philosophy. She invited me over to her place for some snacks, so I went over and we had a good time. Then I apologized about Corbin, and she gave me that bag to put his body in. I bagged him up and that’s about the end of the story.”

“She wanted you to take him away?” I asked. “Why?”

“Who knows? All I know is that I’m getting the fuck out of here and you’re not coming with me.”

“What? Where are you going?”

“I’m going back to New York. You’re nothing but trouble, Lady. Good riddance. I’m taking Corbin Platters with me.”

“But Mark! I quit drinking! Just now, I just quit!”

“Fool me once, Lady, shame on you. Fool me twice… nope. No. Don’t think so.” Mark told me to stand outside while he got back in the car. I did as he said and he drove off. As he drove off, Corbin Platters fell out of the trunk and rolled on the ground. Something else fell out next to him. Mark never noticed and just kept driving.

I began to cry really hard, because what was I going to do? I was in the middle of the woods of West Virginia, which I kept hearing were among the best places to be lost. But I still didn’t feel like being there. I went to get Corbin Platters and found a big ice pick next to him. It looked like that was what had fallen out next to him. I dragged his bag into the woods, and decided I’d go find his sister. Before I did this, I opened his bag and looked at his poor little, gentle face. Somehow, when I’d broken  his neck by forcing him to become a one-man sixty-nine, I had stabbed holes into his face. I didn’t know how that happened, but I just went with it. If I could find Ms. Platters, Corbin’s sister, maybe I’d figure something out.

Turns out that wasn’t true. I did find her. I found a small cabin in the woods with the name Zelsy Platters on the door. I walked in like I owned the place and found Zelsy Platters in a pool of blood on the ground, with stab holes in her face. They were kind of like the stab holes that I found in Corbin’s face. Then it hit me – I realized what happened. I must have murdered Corbin and, while Mark was off probably trying to bring Corbin’s body back to the car, I must have somehow gotten up out of the car, snuck to Zelsy’s house, and murdered her by making her into a sixty-nine. This was horrible. I was a murderer – again.

I had to get out of there. I kissed Zelsy and Corbin on the lips (it was an apology kiss) and then ran into the woods. I didn’t know where I was running to, but I kept going. I was ready to make the woods my home.

For the second half of Life of a Lady, follow the link: Parts 20 and above