Thursday, January 14, 2016

What's All This, Then?

What follows is a novel called Stygiophilia. I wrote it back in 2008, and it hasn't had much love. I've decided to just leave it here - free to the world. Please read it. Feel free to leave comments, suggestions, ideas, death threats, whatever.

Before you read it though, be advised. If this thing had trigger warnings, those trigger warnings would need trigger warnings. This is a nasty, ugly, mean little transgressive animal. It has teeth.

You are warned.

Cheers,

Nathan Tyree


If you enjoy what you read here, consider buying a book by the author. He needs to eat, you know.

Hydrocephalic Ward

or get it at amazon

What Sartre Says about Man's Essence

And, of course, you can BUY THISBOOK at amazon

Chapter 0




Stygiophilia

BY

Nathan Tyree








©2008 Nathan Tyree






































This is not

For You















































Chapter 0


            Will you please just shut the fuck up please. Really, just be quiet and go to sleep. I know you wanna talk, but I'm tired and I need to sleep, okay? If I don't get to sleep I'm not gonna get to work in the morning and I'm about to be fired anyway, right? So please just go to sleep.

            Does that sound like desperation in my voice? Maybe it does. I can't seem to make myself care if she thinks that it is.  Maybe it's pleading or maybe it's anger she hears. Whatever it is I just want her to shut the fuck up and let me sleep. Five minutes ago she was on top of me; grinding her crotch into me and grinding me into her crotch. She was making yelping noises like you’d expect to hear from one of those ugly little dogs that rich bitches pack in their purses and breathing like she was on the verge of a minor stroke or something and it couldn't have been better. She was wet and hot and tight and fucking like this was her last fuck. Now she wants to talk; to ask about if we're going to go on dates and where is this going and do I have a girlfriend and all I want is to collapse into  coma. I've known this girl for all of six hours (I think her name is Julie or something) and I'm tired of her already. To tell the truth,  I was tired of her as soon as I came. I guess that’s always the problem. I meet some girl at a bar or a party or the zoo; I want to come inside her; she wants happiness and love and adoration or some such horse shit bred into her brain by TV and Barbie dolls. The whole thing drives me nuts. You see, I’ll make sure she gets off; I’ll sleep in the wet spot on the sheets; Jesus, I’ll even call her in a couple of days to see if she wants to get laid again; but I will not have these stupid fucking middle of the night conversations with some one who is, really, just an orifice to me. I don’t love and I don’t want to. 

            So I’m just about to finally drift when she says Will you go to the craft show with me? and I almost explode. I’m thinking that maybe If I do myself an injury it’ll give her a hint. Maybe I could do my cigarette trick. I haven’t done that one in a long time. You haven’t heard of the cigarette trick? Oh, it’s a good one. I learned it a few years ago when I was in one of those phases. You know. See, the thing with punching yourself is, you always hold back. Even if you don’t want to. When your fist comes at your own face you hesitate and tense up. No matter how badly you want it, your fists just will not inflict the destruction on your face that they reserve for the faces of others.

            I toyed around with cutting myself. I really considered it. It’s become quite the fad among teenage girls these days and I figured if it’s good enough for little Judy the cheerleader that blows all her daddy’s golf buddies and Suzy the class whore then it must be good enough for me. The problem is the mess. Blood gets everywhere. It soaks in to fabrics and upholstery. I’m no Heloise, but here’s a household hint: protein stains are a bitch to get out. Blood and semen are the worst. If it weren’t for Oxy-Clean every cheerleader on the planet would be shit out of luck.

            So I gave up on the cutting. I kind of fell into the other, the better thing,  really. Late one night, having stumbled in from the narcotic streets and forced to explain myself to Susan (I had been living with Susan for almost three months and if I had had any sense I never would have let myself get that far) I collapsed on the floor next to the bed and lit a cigarette.

            Where the hell have you been was what she asked. ‘Who have you been fucking’ was what she meant. I couldn’t take it. Since I had agreed to move into her apartment we had fallen into more of these conversations than I could stand and this one was just too much. Since this is, as much as anything, a confession, I suppose that I should admit that I had fucked another girl that night. I had banged this big titted blonde in the bathroom of a club. She was kind of heavy and smelled like vanilla and wild flowers. I had led her into the men’s room by the hand and she had started sucking my cock almost instantly; then I fucked her from behind while she pressed her palms against the sink. It wasn’t that I found her all that attractive. She was just available.

            Whatever. I really didn’t want to get into all of that with Susan and the cigarette was already in my hand. I could hear the whine in her voice and I wanted it to stop. She was looking right at me. I touched the tip of the cigarette to the flesh of my forearm. White hot agony shot like sweet heroin through my flesh and I felt the instant blister bubble beneath the surface.      
 Cockfuckershitgodkillerfuckassmotherjesusfuckfuckcuntfuckingcunt was what I thought. If I had a dirty mind it would have been worse. I heard her gasp the way bad actors on soap operas do. That gave me the cajones to go on. What I’ve learned since then is this: you have to do it quickly. You have to jab the red hot cherry tip of the Lucky Strike into your skin without hesitation. It sears. It burns like hell must burn, but it feels good too. When my skin is on fire I feel something that I almost never feel: alive. Most days I’m a straw stuffed headpiece; an empty dead skin sack; an empty space where a man used to stand. With a lit cigarette ripping a hole in me that will take weeks to heal and will leave a permanent scar I’m a man again. 

            So I’m thinking about playing that game again. I’ve done it a few times now and it always feels extraordinary. The weird part is this: every time I burn myself, I get really hard. My arm or my leg will be on fire, but my cock will be swollen in my pants to the point of exploding. You ever try to jerk off with a wounded arm? It aint easy. You don’t want to even consider what it’s like to accidentally get come in an open burn wound. Remember what I said about protein stains? 

            I’m still wondering if I should light a cigarette when I realize that she’s asleep. She’s lying there flat on her stomach, naked and slick with a sheen of sweat coating her skin.  Her ass is round and firm and for a minute I start to think about fucking her again but sleep is the more imperative concern so I roll on my side and drift off. 

            When I wake she's gone. That's for the best, really. If she was still here I'd have to deal with getting rid of her and that can become lugubrious at best.  I lay in bed for a few minutes wondering if I should get up and go to work or not. Finally I decide that I better. So I roll out of bed and head across the apartment. In the kitchen I flip the switch on the coffee maker so it can start brewing. My tongue feels thick and seems to be coated with something viscous and very unpleasant. On the way to the bathroom I open the door to the spare bedroom so that Quetzalcoatl can roam the place while I'm gone. I only lock him up when I have company. A snake-bird-demon-god-south-American-pet-thing is hard to explain.

            While I'm brushing my teeth Quetzal beats his cold wings against the stale air and coils his small snake body around my ankle. I shake him off and try to concentrate on not gagging myself with the tooth brush.

            The stubble on my face isn’t thick enough to force me to shave, so I take a piss, wash my hands and stumble zombie like to the bedroom to look for something that can pass for clean in the laundry pile next to my bed. I settle on a ripped pair of jeans and a T-Shirt bearing the logo of a band I haven’t liked since I was fifteen. Quetzal follows me around like he expects something important.

            Once I get my shoes tied I open the freezer and take out a few dead rats from the Chinese food box hidden behind the ice cube trays. He takes the rats from my hand and slither flies off to enjoy his meal. That taken care of I head to work.

            My car, a 1986 Plymouth Duster that’s more rust and Bond-O than actual car, starts on the first attempt, which surprises the hell out of me. Most mornings I have to fuck with it for twenty minutes just to get the engine going. I pull into traffic and go.

            When I get to DNA Electronics I have to walk up the back stairs to the employee lounge to get my green vest that we're all forced to wear and clock in. Pounding up the stairs my lungs are telling me that I really need to quit smoking. I ignore them. Fuck my lungs; what have they done for me lately, right?

            DNA sells TVs and stereos and computer equipment. They make most of their money on small items like DVDs and CDs and video games which are the items I sell.  I get paid a slave wage by the hour. There's no commission so I don't try too hard.

            Les is slumped at the round table where we eat our lunches. As I come in he lifts his red ringed eyes to look at me through a hangover blur that I can read in the tilt of his shoulders.

            Rough night? I ask. Les makes an indistinct moan in way of reply then drops his head forward and sinks behind half lidded eyes. Man, you gotta take it easy. Keep drinking like that and you’re gonna die young.

            He lifts his balled fist and extends the middle finger upward. Get fucked Mormon he says with something like a smile.

            I get my smock and head back down the stairs to start the day. Mr. Firth is watching me when I hit the sales floor. He catches me with clouded eyes, then taps his watch meaningfully. Yeah yeah I’m late. I know. Again. I wish he’d just let me alone. I don’t acknowledge his look. Instead I just slide past him and position myself in front of the DVD new releases.

            Nobody wants help finding a movie. Most days I wish that some one would ask my advice on, say, the best comedy (Duck Soup) or the scariest horror movie (Halloween) or the best suspense movie (A Touch of Evil) but no one ever does. The tedium is a killer. I fight back the urge to scream at people buying Adam Sandler movies. I want to slap them and scream HAVE YOU EVEN HEARD OF BUSTER KEATON? in their vapid little faces. I don’t, though. I killed someone once. That was a long time ago, though.

            About halfway through my shift five teenage girls swirl into the store and make their way right to the horror movies. They are a dervish of giggles and budding sexuality clothed in the scent of bubble gum and I can’t help getting closer to them. I can smell their sweet soaps and trendy perfume and mostly I can smell their warm skin.

            I ask if I can help them find anything and one says no thanks. I see that they’ve latched on to the insipid re-make of House of Wax and I can’t help saying You don’t want that crap.

            We don’t? asks the tallest of the girls.

            Not if you want to be scared.

            Then what do we want? There’s a hint of flirting, a veiled come on, in her voice and her eyes shimmer like a wave of fireflies. I can feel my heart rate jump up a bit and I say:

            Try this as I hand her a DVD of Romero’s Dawn of the Dead. It’ll scare the pants off you I finish.

            Do you want my pants scared off? Okay, that’s way past hinting. This kid is genuinely coming on to me. I gotta tell you the truth, I’m really considering it. I’d tear this baby up. But... shit, she can’t be more than fifteen. Sixteen at the outside. I’m twenty-five, so sixteen could get me eight to ten.

            You and your friends will like this movie. Trust me. I’m older, I know what I’m talking about. With that I extricate myself from the situation and wander toward the bargain movie section. Bargain movies are things that the store hasn’t been able to sell. They slash the prices and put them under a big sign. People flock to buy movies they don’t want when they’re cheap. I have to admit that I turn to watch her walk away. Her hips sway with a sweet rhythm and her bottom is round and firm in a way that could drive a man to drink. I try to just let it go and pretend that I have important work to do.

            A  few minutes later I see the girls checking out. They took the zombie movie. I feel vindicated. I’m starting to think that today hasn’t been a waste after all. Maybe work can be rewarding.




Chapter 1



Chapter1


            You have to be wondering how I ended up with Quetzalcoatl living in my apartment. I mean hell, if I were you I’d probably be going nuts trying to figure that out. It’s a long story and it has a lot to do with the person I killed. The thing is, I’m not quite ready to tell  that story yet. I need to tell you some other things first.

            When things quiet down in the afternoon Firth approaches me with a serious look. We need to talk in my office, he says. I’ve been expecting it. I figure that this is the come to Jesus speech. I’m not gonna be fired. Not yet, anyway. I follow him to his office and he motions at the chair in front of his desk. I fall into the chair and wait.

            We have a problem he starts. You’ve fallen into a pattern of tardiness that is simply unacceptable. 

            I know. It’s been bad lately, but I’m going to do better. I promise. Sucking up to this loser makes my gut boil. But I have to do it. There’s just really no choice. I need this job for now.

            I’m putting you on sixty days probation. If you are more than five minutes late on any day in that period I’ll have to let you go. I don’t want to, but you aren’t giving me any choice here.

            I understand. I make a few apologetic sounds and get back out to the floor. I want to duck out a few minutes early so I can grab some dinner and a shower before I go out tonight. I still have the stink of sex and beer and bar smoke on me. 

            Toward the end of the day I almost get in an argument with a customer who is convinced that Helmut Berger was in Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry. I finally manage to just ignore the fucker and move on. That kind of stupidity almost breaks my heart.

            You ever think about that? We say things like: it breaks my heart; or I have to follow my heart; or I have a heart ache. What kind of horse shit is that? The heart is a muscle. It pumps blood through our circulatory systems and transports oxygen. The brain is the seat of love and hate and pain. If I wanted to get really specific I'd point out that emotions are a function of the limbic system, which is a part of the neo-mammalian brain. We've got it and reptiles don't. Fish don't either. Birds may have a limbic system, but it doesn't seem that they feel real emotions anyway. I guess their version of that organ is less evolved than mine.

            Anyway, I manage to bail about fifteen minutes before the end of my shift and head back to my shit hole apartment. On the way this little car, more a malformed cracker box on wheels than an automobile, pulls alongside me and a young Japanese guy cranes his head out the window.

            What day it is? He asks.

            Monday, I think.

            Is Monday?

            Yeah. All damn day.

            I not know what wrong with me. Monday?

            That's right.

            He laughs and drives away.

             When I come through the door Quetzalcoatl is fluttering about the room, obviously excited to see me. I swear, sometimes I expect him to lick my face like a dog with his little forked tongue. He’s so fucking needy. You just don’t expect that from a god. I sort of shovel him aside with my shoe. He balls up in an angry coil and fixes me with his lidless eyes for a moment before flapslithering off to sulk in the bedroom.

            I find some leftover Chinese in the 'fridge and toss it in the microwave. Microwaves can alter your DNA. The whole process gives me the creeps, but I swallow my fear and grab the bowl of noodles. I wish I had some soy sauce, but decide that simple salt will have to do.

            I jerk off in the shower. This way I won’t be horny at the bar. There’s nothing worse than being horny and drunk in a room full of slutty girls. It leads to bad decisions. If you need it badly enough you start to focus in on the plain looking girls to increase your chance of success. I hate doing that. My way is better. I have the confidence to pick out a great looking chick and really work at it. At least that’s the theory.

            It’s a good theory, I suppose. Most nights I still end up with something less than my first choice. Anyway, I get dressed and go in search of Quetzal. If I don’t soothe his hurt feelings before I leave I’ll come home to find something of mine destroyed. It’s happened before. Last time it was my copy of The Encyclopedia of Film. That really hurt. I paid seventy bucks for that fucking book.

            I find him on the foot of my bed, coiled up as if ready to strike. I stroke his scales and whisper to him. I try to remind him that it’s just us. No one will come between us, I promise. He’s my buddy. In response he curls around my wrist and slithers up my arm to perch across my shoulders like some weird piece of clothing. He drapes across me and I remember why I like having him around.

            After a while I lift him off my shoulders and lower him onto my pillow. He seems satisfied. I finish up with a few more soft strokes along his body, then say goodbye. I think he’s asleep. It’s hard to tell, though. His eyes never close.

            Then I’m out the door and on the street. It’s dark, which is the way I like it.

            I won’t bore you with the details of my walk downtown. I mean really, who the fuck cares, right? You don’t read a novel to hear about some schmoe looking over the bums as he passes along a cracked sidewalk. While we’re getting to my destination I’ll share with you something from a few years ago.

            I was going to school; pretending to be an art major and trying to convince myself that I was going to get into film school next semester. For a class in The History of Art I had to go to this gallery and see a show by some hot new artist that was apparently all the rage in Terre Haut or some such improbable place. I was wandering around looking at these incomprehensible paintings with titles like “My Mother’s Vagina” and “Freud’s Hippocampus” and thinking that this guy was a complete fucktard. Then I came around a corner and on the wall was this massive canvas. It was like maybe five feet by eight feet and the entire things was crimson. I mean this angry red that wanted to bleed off the edges. In the middle was a jagged splotch of black and in the center of that a single dot of white. There was a diagonal rip running from the upper left corner to the lower right and the canvas had started to curl at the edges of the opening. I stood in front of that painting for a moment wondering what the hell it was supposed to mean. Then I looked at the little white card next to it to see the title. There was one word there:










































Stygiophilia



























            I had no idea what that meant, but it was pretty. That painting just felt so fucking right; so fucking clean and I stood there starring at it for about twenty minutes. Then I went home to find out what the fuck Stygiophilia was. It took me a while to track down the meaning. It turned out that it was a paraphilia. Like Necrophilia or coprophilia. Stygiophilia is getting sexually excited at the act or thought of going to hell. I realized that I knew exactly what he meant. I went back to the gallery the next day and looked at the painting again. Standing there in the gaze of beauty and truth I thought if Rome’s gonna burn, I’m gonna fiddle. I stopped going to classes that same day.

            Hey, we’re here. I’m standing in front of this bar called The Downward Spiral. It's supposed to be great. A buddy of mine, this guy named Stiv (obviously Stiv isn't really his name, it's just what people call him) says that the place is packed with hot chicks all the time. He also assures me that about seventy percent of them will fuck anybody who asks. I figure that's a bunch of shit, knowing Stiv the way I do.

            Let me tell you about Stiv: this is his standard rap; he goes to a bar kind of late, has a few drinks and starts walking up to girls. He orders the girls by level of attractiveness. The most fuckable woman in the place is number one; the second most fuckable is number two and so on. He starts with number one. Stiv walks right up to her and without introduction or preamble says Wanna fuck?. If she slaps him, laughs, calls him a name or walks away silently he moves on to number two, then three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten and so on until finally some girl says sure and he gets laid. The weird thing is that it works. This mediocre looking, slightly fat, scruffy looking perv gets laid almost every night. The even more shocking thing is that normally the girl who says sure is number fifteen or lower. I mean, this totally un-do-able guy  gets to fuck fairly hot looking girls most every night. The secret is confidence. Well, confidence and liquor. Most of these binks are pretty well hammered before Stiv makes his move. Girls are just as suceptible to beer goggles as guys are. 

            I do okay myself. Liquor has a lot to do with my success as well. The fact that I’m cute doesn’t hurt either. 

            Anyway, I’m way off the fucking point here. I’ve been talking all this time and now I’m already inside the bar. The place stinks of regret and failure and best of all, sex. This is it. The sardine people are canned and thrumming to the hard fuck rhythm of the sort of dead eyed music that gets teenage girls wet. I can smell their soaked panties. It smells like fear and that really works for me. The smell of teenage girl’s sloppy wet cunt is sweeter than heroin. 

            I need a drink so badly that I can feel my bones ache. That happens some times. Need is quite a thing.  There are really only two things that can do it to me now. One is, obviously, pussy. The other is whisky. There was a time when it was junk. I'm past that now. Mostly.

            I make my way up to the bar. This involves using my body like a crow bar, pistoning myself in between two sweaty meat sacks and using a bit of leverage to pry them apart. This means rubbing against far too many men.

            I’m not queer. I’d do David Bowie, but otherwise I’m totally straight. You can be sure of that.

            I get to the bar and have a hell of a time getting the bartender to notice me. He’s too busy chatting up a series of intoxicated hotties to notice the dangerously thirsty. Finally he looks my way and I hold up a twenty. He’s too tan and too well sculpted to have any sense whatsoever.

            Yeah, he says without any sense of sincerity.

            Scotch. The best you have. Rocks. Two of ‘em, I shout to be heard above the vibration of the room.

            The drinks come. I down one in a single gulp. The other is meant to be savored, I suppose. It’s supposed to last. I can’t afford to drink too many of these at bar prices (I’ve got a good bottle of Scotch at home) and I’ll have to buy a few for whomever I decide to move on. Listen to me, getting all grammatically correct and shit. I’m all Bill Buckley; I mean, except not an asshole. 

            Scotch in hand I surge through the crowd. The music has shifted from total crap to some  J-Pop band that sounds like a bad engrish rip off of George Clinton, except with a girl singer. It’s almost fun in a campy sort of way; the way Shatner is fun. The way Hoff is fun. Failure can be hilarious. I guess everything that hurts can be funny. That's sort of the point, isn't it?

            The dance floor is full of healthy, sweaty people moving to rhythms that they can feel, but probably don't hear. They almost buzz with sex: real and imagined. I fear that I’m verging on cliché here, so I move closer to the dance floor and start looking over the girls that don’t already seem to be attached to someone. What I’m looking for is a group of girls together. They go out in herds because they think that there’s safety in numbers. With the support of their friends they figure that they get to be in control, to choose who they want. Really, though, that backfires on them. By being in a group they narrow their choices. A crowd is harder to approach than a girl alone, so most of the guys stay away. The clique of cute chicks is then left with fewer men to choose from and, even worse, they now have to compete for the guys who do take a shot. Their natural need to win (and to make their friends lose) drives each of them to fight for the affections of any man who approaches. That’s where I come in.

            I’m about to try to catch the eyes of a thin brunette in just such a group when I hear a voice behind me.

            You were right.

            Huh? as I turn.

            About Dawn of the Dead. You were right. It scared my pants right off. It’s the girl from work. He skirt is much too short and she has thigh high stockings which leave a lot of bare leg open to view. Her T-shirt is very tight, and doesn’t cover her stomach. The revealed skin is a clue to the mystery of the rest of her body. Suddenly it’s a mystery that I need to solve. Hell, right now I’m Phillip Fucking Marlowe. I need another drink, a lot of insurance and a vacation. I don’t have a hat or a gun.

            Aren’t you a little young to be in a place like this? I’m thinking that this is the wrong question. It establishes that I am aware of the fact that she is underage. Still, it’s the only opening I can muster just now.

            Don’t worry about that. She empties a glass filled with something that looks like Windex and gives me a wink. Get me another drink.

            What do you want?

            Something strong. Make it a shot. I’ll wait here for you. She touches my arm and my heart rate increases.

            I make a sound that is supposed to express that idea that I understand and go to get her the drink she wants. A few minutes later I come back with two shots of bourbon. Some other guy has already moved in on her. He’s a tall gangly thing with a trendy hair cut and expensive clothes that are designed to look cheap. He’s leaning in close to whisper something in her ear and simultaneously reaching around to give her ass a squeeze. I can see that she looks bored.

            Buddy, fuck off. I put as much authority in my voice as I can. He swings his head around to look at me.

            Yeah, she says, fuck off. 

            Cunt. With the single epithet he scowls away to find someone else to hit on. I give her her drink. She gulps it.

            Let’s go, she says.

            Go where?

            Your place. I wanna get laid.

            I take her by the hand and lead her through the crowd. If I let go she could get lost in here and I can’t let that happen. Outside she says Where’s your car?

            We have to walk. I don’t live far from here.

            We start out and I realize that I have a problem. Quetzal is roaming the apartment. Somehow I have to get inside without her and put him up. Maybe I can make some excuse about needing to tidy up before she comes in. I don’t know if that will work though so I start trying to formulate a backup plan.

            Do you have anything to drink at your place?

            Yeah. I’m not lying about that either. I mentioned the Scotch before. It’s a good bottle: twelve year old Island Scotch. It’s smooth and kind of peaty. That’s not what I’m giving her. First of all, chicks don’t dig Scotch. I don’t know why. Second of all, it’s too damn expensive to share. I keep stuff for this sort of situation. There’s eight wine coolers in the fridge. Plus a bottle of Tequila and a bottle of spiced rum. I’ve got stuff to mix, too. I can usually keep a girl pretty drunk. 

            When we get there my plan doesn’t work at all. She will not be held back. Turns out that I didn’t need to worry. Quetzal is asleep in the spare room and I just close the door. She asks for a drink and I walk to the kitchen to mix some spiced run into a glass of coke. When I walk back into the room she’s standing with her back to me. She’s lifting up the back of her skirt to reveal that her panties are gone. Without looking away from her round little ass I see that her thong is wadded on the floor next to her foot. She looks back over her shoulder at me and licks her lips slowly. Fuck she’s hot.

            Don’t you want your drink I ask hoping she’ll say no.

            She lets her skirt drop down over her bottom and turns to face me. Then she falls back onto the couch and holds out her hand for the drink. I hand it to her and sit next to her on my ratty couch.

            She sips the drink. 

            So, do you like-

            Don’t talk. She cuts me off then reaches over to take hold of my hand and places it on her bare thigh. I let my hand rest there a second then start to slide it upward. I do this cautiously, slowly, with too many adverbs. At first she just lets it happen, nursing her drink and taking her time. My fingers reach their destination. My pinkie is touching the far edge of her outer labia and I can tell that she’s shaved. I hope she’s shaved. What if she’s younger than I think? Christ fuck shit. Maybe she’s a baby. I stop my hand and say Is your pussy shaved?

            She nods then makes a shoosing sound to quiet me. I take my hand farther to find the warm opening and she reaches down to stop me. She pushes my hand back down to the verge of her lips and says Keep it there for a little while. Wait until I finish my drink.

            Now I feel like I’m going to explode. I want to push her down and fuck her. But I wait while she drinks. This is torture. She’s a sick genius of some sort. I’m thinking that either she wants me so worked up that I screw like a monster or that she’s just teasing me and after he drink is gone she’ll stand up, say goodbye and walk out.  That would probably kill me.

            Finally, after what feels like a geological age, she empties her drink and sets the glass down. For another five years she says or does nothing. Then she shifts her leg slightly toward me, which almost causes my hand to slide over her pussy. I don’t let it.

            That’s a good boy, she says. With that she lifts my hand off her and stands. If she says goodbye I’m gonna blow my brains out. The girl (I don’t think I know her name. Jesus, I haven’t even asked her name) stands in front of me for a moment. She starts to lift her skirt, gets almost to the point of revealing what I want to see, then lets go of it. Her hands move up her torso and come to her small breasts. There they pause, then begin to rub and massage. I don’t move. At least, I don’t on purpose. My cock is swelling and moving in my pants, but that is involuntary movement.

            She smiles and then turns her back to me. Her feet are planted wide and she lifts her skirt again, this time high. Her sweet bottom revealed, she bends forward at the waist. Damn she's bendy. Her face is looking at me from between her knees and she motions with her finger for me to come to her. I shake my head to indicate 'no'. She wanted to play games, well I'm good at games. She's gonna have to come to me. She gives me a scowl, then straightens up and turns to face me. After closing the distance between us with a few tight steps she puts her left foot on the couch next to me and pushes her knee outward to reveal a rather good view of her pussy. She plunges her fingers in her mouth and sucks them a minute, the begins rubbing those wet fingers against her equally wet crotch.

            Do you want this? Her voice is more panting and huffing than talking. 

            I nod.

            A minute later we are on the bed; clothes gone. I'm lying on my back and she's bent over me working my cock up and down with her hand while she sucks lightly at the tip of it. Suddenly she slides her mouth down taking all of my length and simultaneously increasing the pressure of the suction created by the vacuum she has made of her mouth. Without breaking that seal she pivots her body around to straddle my face. She presses her crotch down hard and I think that I may suffocate. Then it's better. I've got my nose free and my tongue deep inside of her. She tastes good: clean. Like flower scented soap and youth.

            She stops sucking me and concentrates on riding my face. She’s  making whoop whoop noises at a high pitch. She sounds kind of funny. I'm really getting a good rhythm and think I can get her off soon, but she stops. She climbs off my head and lies down next to me. I take a minute to survey her form stretched out along the bed: she is firm and small and light. I'm thinking that she maybe looks younger than she is.
            She gets on top of me and holds my dick in her hand as she slides herself down over it. She’s tight. I mean really tight. At first we can’t make it work, I wont fit. She’s tenacious, though, and keeps working at it. Finally I’m inside her. She uses her knees to push herself up and down my length for a while. I grab her ass in both hands and squeeze hard; maybe too hard.

            Then, just when I think I’m about to come she stops. She’s hovering with just the tip of my cock inside her.

            Say my name, she says.

            This could be bad. I decide to just be honest. I would if I knew it. You never told me.

            You never asked. She smiles as she says this. I’m relieved.

            What’s your name?

            Sindee. With two Es.

            What? Spell it.

            Sin. You know, like this. And dee like the name. S-I-N-D-E-E. Sindee.

            Okay, I say, Sindee. The instant I do she slides back down me and starts to grind front and back against me. She’s using me to work her clit and I can already tell that she’s close. 

            Put your finger up my butt, she moans. So I do. I lick it first, then I jam my finger 
in her ass. I push it in as far as it will go and she starts to scream: Jesus fuck me. Fuck me. FUCK ME JESUS. FUCK ME JESUS. FUCK FUCK FUCK.  I have to admit that that is very goddamned hot. I mean, 'fuck me Jesus' is about the dirtiest thing I've ever heard any girl moan, yell or scream in bed. Her entire body starts to shake. She’s not moving voluntarily any more, but all of her muscles are contracting. Her pussy was only painfully tight before, but now as each wave passes through her body it feels like my dick is going to be crushed. 

            Now she’s rolling off me.

            If you want to come get on top she says. I do. It doesn’t take me long; a few slow thrusts followed by a few quick ones and a couple more slow ones and I’m filling her up with my hot semen. And I’m not wearing a condom. Fuck. Shit, what the hell was I thinking? I know what I was thinking: I could smell her cunt and I wanted to feel it. Still, I shouldn’t be this stupid. I pull out. I look down to watch as I exit her body and see that the white liquid is already seeping out of her. 

            I’m on the pill. Don’t worry she says.

            Huh?

            We didn’t use a rubber, but I’m on the pill. 

            Oh.

            Go to sleep. And don’t touch me while I’m sleeping. I don’t like that. She’s a bossy little thing.
            I’ve gotta piss.

            I don’t care. Just don’t touch me.

            I wander off to the bathroom and piss, as promised. When I come back she’s already asleep. I climb in next to her and in a few minutes I’m also out.

            When I wake up she’s on the couch wearing a pair of my boxer shorts and nothing else. She’s smoking one of my cigarettes with her left hand. Her right hand is slowly stroking Quetzal’s back. He’s coiled next to her and looks dreadfully happy. I swear, if he was a cat he’d be purring.

            What’s this? Her voice should have more of a shocked sound. I mean really, look at this scene. Teenage girl picks up a guy in a bar, fucks the hell out of him and wakes up to find a mythological god hanging out in the guy’s apartment. She should be freaking out. But she’s not.

            Uh... it’s hard to explain. 

            Try.

            That’s Quetzalcoatl. He’s some sort of South American God. He’s sorta a pet, I guess.

            Okay. You got anything to eat around here?

            Check the fridge.

            She stands and walks to the fridge. Quetzal follows her. The little punk has already imprinted on this little bink. Sindee comes back a minute later with a piece of cheese. She flops on the couch and starts eating. She offers Quetzal a little piece, but he doesn’t take it. I could have told her that. He eats meat. And souls. maybe. I think that I should mean that, but I don’t believe in souls. 

            I guess this will sound weird considering that I keep a god as a pet, but I’m an Atheist. Put that in your hat and smoke it.

            Where’d you get him?

            It’s a long story. Maybe I’ll tell you someday.

            You think I’m gonna stick around?

            I thought you might come back here from time to time.

            She laughs. You like my pussy that much huh? Ya know, just because you got me off doesn’t mean you have any right to fuck me again. You get that if and when I want it. I’ll hang out, though.

            Okay. But look, if you aren’t gonna fuck me put on a shirt. Seeing your tits is getting me horny.

            She laughs again. Oh, I’m gonna fuck you today. I’m still horny. But it’s because I want it.

            Okay.

            I’m not going to tell her how I got Quetzal. I mean, I might tell her something, but it won't be the truth. I’ll tell you, though. It’s a long story, and it starts when I was about six. Be patient, this is going to take a while and I might have to break it up a bit.

            The first part is about my mother. See, when I was a little kid she found Jesus. I’m not sure how it happened. I guess maybe it was while she was vacuuming. Maybe she was pushing that big old Electrolux over the rich shag carpet, chasing the dirt with that single headlight when she saw him looking up from behind the couch with his wide, beatific eyes. Her sacred heart would have melted.

            Anyway, she started dragging us all off to church twice a week. It sucked. I figured that this was part of a plot to keep me from having any fun. To make things worse my mom picked one of those Pentecostal churches where all the women stop cutting their hair and wear those long denim skirts no matter what the weather does. Do you know how those Christian girls stink in August? Try being trapped in a tiny little church when the air conditioning goes. It could make a carrion bird puke. 

            They all play at having seizures and fits of glosolalia when the spirit takes them. I didn’t fall for any of it. I knew right off that this god business was a bunch of bullshit. I didn’t go for it. The worst part was the damn prayer that they made me memorize and recite:











Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the lord my soul to keep
if I should die before I wake
I pray the lord my soul to take










  


  




            Do you see just how twisted that is? I mean, what kind of sick rat bastard fuck makes little kids say things like that. I mean, think of the implications: this means that I could go to sleep, sound in my warm bed, and just die. Apparently for no reason and with no explanation. AND, and, they seem to want kids to be cheerful about this. That poem was the end of any connection I was going to have to Christianity. Even if I had believed it, I would have loathed it.

            Anyway, to sum up the story so far: Mom got religion, I didn’t. That’s part one. Now, back to where we are.

            Sindee is on the couch, topless, eating cheese and stroking my pet god. I’m wondering when she’s going to let me put my dick in her. It needs to be soon because I want to shower and shave before work. Plus I need some time to make sure that I can trust her not to tell anyone about Quetzal.

            I flop on the couch next to her and rest my hand on her thigh.

            Not yet.

            I take my hand back. I’ve gotta shower, I say.

            Good. You stink. She doesn’t put a wink in it. She just says it matter of fact like I should already know that I smell bad. Maybe I do. 

            You don’t exactly smell like a daisy yourself.

            Yeah, but if you want more of my pussy you’ll have to put up with the smell. Now go get in the shower.

            For some reason I do as I’m told. I don’t know what it is about this chick, but I don’t seem to be able to disobey her. That’s starting to piss me off.

            In the shower I take a little longer washing my junk than is absolutely necessary and by the time I walk into the living room naked my cock is engorged and stiff and leading the way. It’s a waste, though, because Sindee is gone.

            I fall back on the couch and jerk off th
inking about her tight little ass. I imagine that I’m pounding her ass as I come. Then I get dressed.  I want a Coke, so I check the fridge. There’s a note lying on the shelf and I pick it up:
































You (You never told me your name, dumbass),

I’ll come by tonight. Be home.

Sindee
XOXO






















            I guess that will have to do. There’s no Coke in the fridge so I go to the store to get some. While I’m walking I’ll give you part two of the story.

            So by now I’m eleven. Mom’s off her religion kick. A kid up the block that I used to play with shot himself in the face for no apparent reason and in response my mom went all nihilistic and shit. She’d get over that eventually, but she was done with Gawd for good.

            In the meantime I had made a discovery. Churches hold these “youth events” where a lot of good, pious, clean boys and girls get together for good, pious, clean fun. They have hay rides and Board games and lots of other happy horse shit. The thing is, these things are filled with girls. I mean it’s a girl to boy ratio of four to one. And these girls haven’t had much fun. They want to rebel, but need someone to show them how. 

            What I found was that you could get one of these milquetoast denim wearing girls alone and not only could you put you tongue in her mouth, but most of the time you could play with some tit. These girls were on the very edge of being ready to put out and I wanted to be there when one of them made the leap.

            As you can guess, I was going to as many of these functions as I could. And I was getting a lot of action for an eleven year old. I’d squeezed more tits than a dairy farmer (I know, bad joke).

            Anyway, this went on for two years and I still wasn’t any closer to getting to fuck than I had been when I started. I was thirteen and still sucking tongue and squeezing boobies, but not getting anywhere near what I wanted: wet, tight, Jesus freak pussy. I was dying for it.

            Then I met Carol. Her daddy was the new preacher at the church I had been attending. Carol was older than me. She was fifteen. She had a long thin body, and some acne which made her a little less confident than she should have been. She started flirting with me the first night we met and I was just certain that she would be the one to give me what I needed.

            That’s going to have to wait, though, ‘cause I’m at the store and I need to find the cold cans of Coke.

            There’s an Indian guy behind the counter reading Music for Iguanas and he looks up as I set the coke down.

            Anything else for you?

            Yeah. Two packs of Lucky Strikes. I fish for money in my pocket as he rings it up. Then I open a pack of cigarettes and light one as I walk out onto the street. Lucky Strike means fine tobacco. That aint no shit.

            I’ve still got a few hours before work and I decide to see a movie. A place not far from here is playing a Marx Brothers double feature: Duck Soup and Horse Feathers. I drink my Coke on the way.

            In the theatre (excuse the jump there, I had nothing to think about as I walked) I slump down in a seat and let the flickering light wash over me. It feels like heaven.