The Back of Need

I had become the corpse of his walking shadow. At times I was consumed by a slow fire, or at times, I was steeped in a private whirlpool. After a while I found myself gone cold; I wouldn’t wait for him after work; I wouldn’t ask him to parties or movies. I couldn’t even be bothered to stand next to him. He had gone from green to gray.

I expected for him to grow as cold as I did.

And he did.

But not entirely. Underneath his smooth lacquer there were slow coals. That were constant in their burning. And then it happened. It wasn’t my eyes that would be caught mid-stare, but his. I could feel his splitting stares cast over my back. And pause over my legs. And float up to the bottom lip’s bow. He noticed now how I had a body that wasn’t his, but was bountiful and strong and stood tall. How now, I could look into those once all too penetrating eyes and see a certain type of sadness that is known as loneliness.



And then he started to call my name. In desperation, like one caught inside a dream. It was demanding and honest and betrayed his affection. It would break the snow cloak I wore around my body. And render my body into lightening: when he would call I would come.



And thus we entered the carnal contract, an instinctual understanding that we would eventually lie together.



How fast I came, him watching before and after seeing how my hips suddenly swung and stood before him taking maybe one or two miraculous strides and bounding up in front of him. The look in his eyes was dark and greedy. He would stand tall and then come in talking fast. Pinning down my interest. Employing the same techniques I had used once before, waking my aloofness through puzzles. Through riddles and encrypted compliments.  And how his eyes turned green.



I gave him erotic manuscripts, gothic engravings, and eyes painted for love letters. I taunted him with words spoken from other lovers, the compliments and conquests enjoyed; their beauty, their strength, their masculine abandon. He would roll this around like a razor around his neck. Sometimes nicking, or cutting but at giving a sense of monastery meditation. An outlet to experience the desires that was locked up in his drawings and late night meditations.  I wanted so badly to break him. I wanted so badly to lose the flood gates. I wanted him to rip me open and do something drastic and demanding and complete.



My desire for him was insurmountable. When finally, after of months of declining his invitations I finally agreed to a movie. It was a cult classic, full of blood and lust and half decayed bodies. At midnight we met out front, it was cold and dreary and the theater had only one man in the front. We drank coffee, I had snuck in a flask of whiskey. I wore a garter belt with stockings, no under things. I could feel my bare ass touching the rough wool of the theater seat. It made me blush in secrecy. I wore a red dress with a pinched waist and full skirt and buttons going down the back. Simple t-straps made me an additional two inches taller than him. I wore my face like a film noir femme fatale. My blond hair was a little bit crazed and but still fell long against my back. As we sat there watching previews it seemed like his thighs were radiating heat. I could feel it even as I sat three inches away. How delicious that distance was. I kept leaning over the opposite armrest to fill his cup, making sure my breast fell on top of his resting hand . At first he jumped, as if shocked, but then quickly placed his hand where it was, and then started to inch it closer to me. After the third time, when my back was bent and my breast on top of the back of his hand, he turned up his palm and slowly, softly cupped my breast. I knew he could feel the hardening of my nipple as he rolled it back and forth. Sparks started to fly as I lay over his hand, not wanting to move or meet his stare. I was afraid that he would put me in a trance, and I would be frightened that he would withdraw. I laid my head on the opposite armrest, smelling the woody scent of the whiskey coffee. My body was more elongated , my torso nearly falling over him, as his hand on my breast pinched more tightly, holding the nipple, to force my body to bend over more closely. I could tell that the upper part of my thigh was exposed, where the tights and the garter met. His free hand worked down, feeling the straps, pulling at them, tracing the tops of the stalking, pinching them, pulling them up, so his hand started to rest right at the bottom curve of my ass. My face had floated down to his belly, hearing his breaths deepening, and his body seemed to produce even more heat. I sunk my head deeper to burrow in between his thighs, all the while this caused me to be bent into more of a v-shape, so that now my pelvis was laying on top of the armrest rather than my stomach. I crossed my legs to anchor myself so that just the tips of my toes touched the ground. I noticed that I was breathing heavier, smashing my face into the fabric of his jeans, greedily taking in the smell of him. I felt him slowly start to trace the upper part of the garter, tracing the top of my ass cheek, clearly avoiding taking the fullness as of it all at once. After he had slowly traced the entire of the back of the garter belt, he took both hands and brought back my skirt to expose my ass. As soon as he saw that I had no underwear, his pelvis jumped, my face  hit by his hardened cock still bound by his tight black jeans. He brought his hand to my neck, in a pleading way, as if to awake me. He undid his pants, and his cock uncoiled, standing straight. The smell of it was wonderful, it made my mouth salivate. His hand on my neck tightened, I started to lick from shaft to the head.  I was licking and kissing the top from the side of my mouth, not letting his cock enter very far. His hand released my neck and floated down to my ass. He started to knead it or to knock it from the side watching as it bounced. He started at first just to pat it. Still I laid in his lap kissing and licking his swollen shaft. I knew that he was teasing my ass, just like I was teasing his cock. So under his patting, I would raise my ass to the hand, to increase it‘s intensity. At the same time as my ass shot up, my mouth went a little more further down his head, just enough to cover the mushroom top. This was the reaction we both wanted. He started to spank me a little more, just enough to make a sound. I uncrossed my ankles and spread them a little further so that my ass was raised higher. I was only letting a little more of his cock in my mouth and would wait until his hand came down to go down. Now that my legs were taking the weight of it and my ass clenched, he could bear down on me harder without making the spanking sound, I could tell that my ass was started to get red. But I was being stubborn, I was taking my time, and now he was getting greedy to have my mouth moving quickly, taking him more fully. He started to raise his pelvis as he brought his hand down, giving something like a swimmer’s side stroke that brought tears to my eyes and weakness to my knees. I took him in fully three times, still slowly, because I didn‘t want him to come. My pussy was burning too, I could feel how wet I was, it was starting to slide down to my thighs. I laid on the armrest and got my breath, as his hands traveled up my back and to my neck again, this time reassuring me, motioning me to take him in my mouth. Again, I was afraid to meet his eyes, afraid that at any moment he would look away and never back again. I momentarily contemplated getting up and walking away, but didn’t because I wouldn’t have been able to walk for the throbbing in my groins. As I laid there I used both hands to push his pants all the way down to his ankles. I raised my skirt, higher this time  to my stomach and swung my torso away from him, now facing the screen and mounted him. His cock easily slid in, pushing my wetness out to the top his knees. I held him there inside me, clenching as tight as I could, making small circles with the power of my lower back and hips, as my hands still held up my skirt and the back of the chair. I knew his eyes were taking it all in. Freely able to see my hips, ass and thighs grind in this erotic belly dance.  He started to undo the back of my dress. For every rotation my back made around his cock, one button would be undone.  Finally I felt my bra being undone, as sweat started to bead along my forehead and rest at the bottom of my spine. He slid the front of my dress and bra down my shoulders and breasts stopping at my elbows.  He quickly tied the straps of the bra  together, making my elbows nearly touch. It was nicely tight but would give a little. He hooked my elbows to the side of the chair in front of us, so that now I was no longer sitting on him, but now he had room to swing his pelvis back and forth. After hooking me, he grabbed the small of my waist, hoisting him self up so that his lower belly hit the top of my ass all the while with him still inside me. It was such a strong thrust that my breath was knocked out by the back of the chair. I let out a groan of pain and pleasure and planted my feet solidly, arching my back and pulling my head backwards so that he could take my hair in his hands as well. As he was giving me strong slow thrusts, alternately grabbing a nipple, my waist, pulling my hair or spreading an ass cheek. He whispered in my ear; “I am taking you”. I slid my eyes to the side so I could glimpse the contours of  his mouth, pressing my cheek to his lips, as his cock burrowed deeper then ever before. With my face turned I realized that the other man in the theater had gotten up and gone to one of the corners, bent over a little, with his back against the wall slowly rubbing his dick. I let out a laugh, felt a little clip of pleasure echo in my clit that my lover could feel in the walls of my pussy and turned my face to whisper; “and he will watch me, while you do it.” He looked over and saw the man in the corner, I was still smiling as he brought his hand down to my neck, forcing me further over the chairs so now I could hook my knees to the back of thighs. He pushed me down and started thrusting standing up, as a I precariously balanced on top of the chair. I could tell that he was in full passion, angered by the onlooker but also had a sense of performance bravado. He was fucking me so hard now, that the bottom of his hand held my neck up from the bottom, at time constricting my air. I had my toes placed on the two chairs now, anchoring me for his harsh pushing, spreading my ass and vagina as far apart as possible. He was leaning back now, with his hand on my hips rocking my ass back and forth into his thrusts. I finally slid out of my bra, got a hand on one of the armchairs and my others hand to my clit. He had been breathing so heavy, with little groans of pleasure, and with my fingers fucking my clit I started to feel the walls of my vagina throb and my ass go into contractions. We were in the sweet ascendance of orgasm, I was trying to clench and coach his cock with my inside muscles so that he was ramming right against my g-spot. I was letting a nonsense moan come out of me. He stuck his index finger in my pussy quickly between thrusts and wetted it, and put his finger on my asshole. I could feel his sweat dripping from his forehead onto my back. I could feel his cock throbbing in such a way that I knew he was about to cum. He slowly rolled his finger around, spitting on it and then brutally sticking it inside. The pain of his penetration made my pussy seize that started the rolling of my orgasm, my entire body started to quake as if being seized by electricity. He kept fucking my asshole with his index quickly as his semen filled up my hole. There was so much cum that I could feel it gathering on the back of the theater chair. We stood there rigid for a minute, and then he brought himself down to the chair. I sat down on his lap like a big doll. Hiding my face as the lonely stranger walked out. He helped me back in my clothes and we sat there rocking, once again settled by the cinematic glow and the flashing pictures before us. I settled into my original chair and unwrinkled my dress and waited for the credits to roll.



I didn’t want to see him for a while afterward. I didn’t want to see him in the everyday interactions of life. I wanted only to see him in my mind, his silhouette in the empty theater, seemingly to glow as if an apparition. I called an old friend in Paris. She was staying the summer in her parent’s vacation home. When she extended an invitation. I took it. I covered my two weeks at work, knowing that he would be there behind his paper and sterile neon lights, knowing that my absence would drive a hole thru his heart. 



When I came back to my gray New York City. I quit my job, and tapped into my savings. I moved to a dilapidated beach town in Brooklyn. I worked as an artist’s model, taking the train to the city, sitting in awful poses,  meeting private clients, mostly old men, who would pay handsomely for a few hours of sitting. Sometimes my clients would recount their exploits as young men, explaining that seeing a beautiful women in a nude recline always brought back the most sudden sharp images of their youth. Sometimes they would inquire about my love life, they would give fatherly advice and try to hasten my decision making. One day my client bought a bottle of heavy Port and we drank greedily, talking about the essence of love. He walked me to the front door of my previous job. He dropped me off, saying that it would be better if it was just me waiting for him. It wasn’t raining, but the wind had started to kick in, and it seemed like autumn was pulsating with green turning to amber.



It was about time for him to get off work. I felt as if my breath wasn’t going to surface, that my voice would come out inaudible. I flipped up the hood of my black wool jacket, because I felt as if I was going to start to cry. He didn’t come out, I had smoked nearly ten cigarettes. I walked to the subway bar. I sat in the back, with my hood still up, sipping strongly sour jack and cokes. Watching a fat woman dance in front of the jukebox and an old man jiggling the change in his pocket. A young businessman sat next to me and bought me a handful of drinks, as I told him explosive lies, trying to tangle them up so much that he wouldn’t be able to follow. Changing the names and places so that it was nearly impossible to believe in it‘s authenticity. He offered me cocaine in the bathroom, reaching under my skirt as I took in the lines to my nose. Others came to sit next to us, I talked faster, with more passion to try and withhold the tears that threatened to force out on my cheeks. And even worse, I had at one point taken off my jacket and was sitting in a flashy red dress, looking like a bolt of red lightening.  The young businessman grabbed my wrist, suddenly turning nasty. He told me he was finished with me talking and was more interested in what else my mouth could do. I told him that would I come, that I had to make a call first, that it was very important and that he must wait out front for me. I went to the back and locked myself in an old fashioned payphone booth. I called my client with the Port, the one that had advocated the humanness of love. I was yelling and crying and he was comforting me. His voice was soft and slurred in drink and told me to come back to him, that he would prepare his couch for me, that I had spent too much time alone at that bar and that it was of no use to go home with that mean drunk.



I hung up the phone feeling empty. I was leaning against the side of the booth with my face tangled up in my hair and my shoulders heaving. My hands twisting against themselves. I could feel the door being forcefully pulled outward. I turned around with my back away from the door, expecting it to be the man who was waiting for me. The door opened and a pair of arms were slung around my waist, with their head hugging the inside of my neck. The embrace was so heartfelt that I leaned into to it, like a toddler leaning into a sling. And then I noticed that his smell was the smell that I had known before, reminding me of buttery popcorn and stale air. Without opening my eyes or facing him, I whispered; “Is it you?” And he answered by kissing the curve of my neck, letting “Yes, yes” come between his mouth making contact with my skin.



Finally he spun me around, my back forced against the ledge of the pay phone. And brought his face close to mine, with a look of menace he spoke again: “And you ran away from me” “and then I find you here crying in the phone booth of a dive bar, spinning of whiskey and cocaine.” For a few moments we stood face to face, him waiting for me to respond. I ran my fingers through my hair, letting all of it tumble back, letting my face be fully exposed and leveled my eyes with his. And stared back in defiance and felt my mouth turn in malice, “Yes.”



A laugh came out, making his mouth piece into a smile. The sound came out low and then became heavier. I smiled with him, feeling quick shocks of his beauty run thru me. All those moments I had spent pining over  him seemed to dam up and spill out as I grabbed his hand and laid it on my heart. Feeling this great urgency spread over me as I as I heard my voice ask in a plea: “And will you take me?” .

His laughter stopped, but it seemed to linger on the surface of his green eyes. “Where?”

“It doesn't matter.”



He led me out of the bar by my hand, walking past the man who waited for me out front. He held my wrist in a way that I could not move it. It was at a precarious angle bent behind my back with the wrist bent. We walked through the small one way streets up three blocks and two over. We went in an alley way. He jumped up and pulled the fire escape ladder down. He looked down at me as he swung his body up the four feet up to the ladder. I jumped up and wrapped my fingers that felt as if they had lost all strength. I did a slow pathetic curl up to the bar as he started to pull on my elbow. I was able to hook it around the bottom rung and forced my free hand to grab the second. Pulling with my arms now I swung my lower body, barely catching the bottom rung and inched my toes onto it. I was almost certain that I was going to fall straight on my back. I could feel the fear seize up in my stomach. I heard his voice say: “ You can do this. Don’t for a moment get it in your head that you can’t”.

I looked up and saw a strange expression of care and danger. His face was beautiful in these moments. It was the beauty with an intensity that few handsome faces can contort themselves into. Basking in his gaze caused my  movements no longer to exist under normal circumstances, but floated free from gravity. I levitated myself so that I could stand face to face once again.

He started talking before I was in front of him, my head finally starting to spin under the weight of alcohol. I wasn’t catching the words between the rapid fire sentences. I only caught the last sentence in its’ certainty as I finally stood in front of him. “I will not touch you again.”



He started up the stairs, finally at the top, opening up a large old single pane glass window. Low and wide enough to be a doorway. His ceilings were vaulted with old fashioned molding accentuating the geometric patterns of the small triangles and octagons. On the walls hung hundreds of small, intricate, black ink sketches. Some were sketches of people, lost in moments of solitude along a lonely park bench or bar stool. Some where drawings done at night, where the sky seemed to be entirely saturated with a black sea of ink. There were others of nonexistent creatures, or broken bodies, anatomical structures: perfect similes for medieval surgeon tables. The furniture that wasn’t really furniture but random empty glass window panes creating sectionals in the large studio room, alabaster busts, some broken or complete, but all laid out on the floor as if they were pieces of bodies strewn about. 



In the back was his bed, and above this more drawings were hung. Mostly pictures of naked women, most hideous, with glaring teeth, dark eyes, bruised or bloated or deformed in someway. Most were old or sickly looking, or had a the look of the mentally ill. Mixed in these was one women who seemed to be drawn from all angles, with shoulder length brown hair, large breasts that swung over her rib cage. Large thighs, dimpled and scarred with age. Disproportionally thin arms and calves, with a heavy ass and thighs. She had large brown eyes that gave away no emotion, in each drawing her expression remained constant. They were eyes that had given up on passion and had been replaced with a hollow sense of caution. Like an animal expecting the master’s backhand.

He was standing behind me as I looked over his collection of drawings; I could feel his breath lifting the hairs on the back of my neck.



“I see you have found Rosemary.”



He didn’t wait for me to reply, but continued: “ You left me with my body on fire, that night I couldn’t sleep, I wanted your body again. The next morning it was the same. I practically ran to work. It didn’t go away after you had left. It seemed only to get worse. I couldn’t sleep, masturbation would only bring more frequent and decadent fantasies. When I heard that you were never coming back, my fantasies became more and more violent. In my dreams I wouldn’t just take your body, but also your life. I would wake up with the worst night sweats of my life. I would pace in my apartment, take long walks, sit in bars until a drunken women would fall into my lap. I started going to peep shows, strip teases; it got so bad that I started paging various women from the back of the newspaper. That’s when I met Rosemary.”

“The first time I met her I traveled into Queens, we met at this Puerto Rican  bar, on the way to her apartment I was jumped, all my money was stolen and I got hit pretty bad across the lip. She took me to her place, said that she didn’t mind that I didn’t have any money and said she could tell that I would come back. She applied a hot towel to my lip to stop the bleeding and started to give me head. We were in the bathroom when all this started and she took off her clothes and start to take a shower in front of me. She ran soap between her breasts and inside her vagina and ass cheeks. Turning around and over so I could see everything. Exclaiming the entire time: ’I’m clean for you baby, look!’. I had never seen a woman of her age. I could see her cellulite, veins, and scars. But nonetheless her ass shook, and her breasts danced in front of me, her belly even seemed to be a beautiful pillow. My cock was nearly standing straight and bobbing watching her shower. I felt swept up in the need to fuck her. I told her this and she got out, she didn’t even bother to towel off but got on her bed on all fours. With her thighs spread and her ass in the air I could see right into her hole and asshole. I got behind her, waiting only momentarily to cover my shaft in spit and a rubber, and rammed it in. She took my fucking for a while, right before I was going to cum she turned around on her back. She pulled me down by my neck so that I could kiss her. A shock of pain ran though my body as she started to suck on my injured lip. I fell on the bed on top of her when my knees buckled in pain. She mounted me, she slapped me on the face, and squeezed her pussy around my cock. She reached back and grabbed my balls, took her hands and rubbed the place between my balls and shaft, applying pressure as she swung her hips hurriedly. She slapped me again on the face, I could feel tears and the blood coming down. She was staring at me with those cautious eyes and bent down and bit on my lip as her hand squeezed my balls painfully. She rose up again. Her pelvis floated over mine and then I saw her open her asshole and sink it down onto my cock. Her body seemed to tense and her back arched. She released her iron hold on my balls and groaned “cum, now. In my asshole.” I watched her empty pussy moving up and down over my abdomen and saw my cock going in and out of her asshole. I arched my back, bringing my cock all the way inside of her. She cried a little in pain and I felt the groan float over my bleeding lip as my semen spewed out hot and thick. I waited for a little while and fucked her many times. Begging her each time do something to hurt me, to squeeze my balls, to penetrate my asshole, for her to suffocate me in her vagina.”



“I became one of her most frequent johns. I got tired of fucking her and wanted something more. She arranged for me to fuck her and her girlfriend, Tia. Tia was a big woman, with short hair and a dark patch of pubic hair. A few times I watched Tia fuck Rosemary with a strap one. I would fuck Rosemary in the ass as she fucked Tia. I would have Rosemary fuck me as Tia sucked me off. I would have them over for hours, fucking and smoking pot and taking pictures and watching porn. We would drink until we were sick, we would fall asleep the three of us in my bed and I would always fuck them one more time before they left.”



“I could sleep again. I never thought about you. I didn’t care if you ever came back. I had found many whores that would love for me to fuck them. You no longer had your power. Then one day Rosemary didn’t return my calls. I figured that they had moved or maybe were arrested. I didn’t really care. I finally felt the fire being diffused. I could sleep all night without nightmares or sweats.”

He paused and turned to look me straight in the eye, even lowering his head a little and smiled when he said: “ I will never touch you again.”



And something inside me was different from the woman he knew before. There was something stronger in my face, some sort of bottled up sunshine and French perfume. And I could feel my gaze straightening, as this flush of indignation colored my cheeks and could hear the harsh edges of anger in my voice as I said: “It‘s not my touch that has haunted you. It is more than this, while your determination only betrays your true emotions. I have given you pain that you have never felt before, and this takes away your potency and your power. ”.



To this his eyes gave no response, the green that would tide in at moments of emotion, turned a silver. His look of  lightning corded a dullness, a numbness, that was the last vision I had that night. Instead, I had blackout dreams of a single circling shark in a topaz sea; my body the ocean and his the sliding knife.



There was only one dream I could remember:





He told me to get a new body. He had just sawed my body into two. I didn’t have a head or a torso, only a set of legs, my pubis, and my buttocks. I remember seeing the meaty upper part where my navel and abdomen should have been, but was left gaping and open, and if I had to form words this would acted as a replacement mouth. I was walking around, past two small children, down the city street, whose pavement looked like my red satin bed sheets, stretched thin and greasy and pulling in parts. I went through a public park and found the replacement body.



It was Joan Crawford.





She had eyes lit up like lightening and a meanness that was thick as a midnight cloak. Before it did not matter that I had only half a body. But now I understood that I was only half and that was monstrous. She sneered at me and I felt animal hate. I felt like a joy division  guard at Auschwitz. And my own imminent death was on the threshold.



I can’t remember killing her.



All I can remember was the hate. All I can remember was thinking: she deserves it. I will make better use of this. I liked her body. She had small breasts, angular hips, ribs that crisscrossed like an apple pie‘s crust. My new face didn’t matter, it was the body that you wanted. 



I was walking towards you, I had her white blouse and navy pencil skirt on. You were behind a car and there was broken glass at your feet. You grabbed my wrist. I felt some sort of metal on my mouth. You threw me down on the ground and I felt those little shards break through the back of the blouse. You took out your cock. You stood over me with you cock standing so erect it shot upwards; it was bobbing. It must have been incredibly painful to have so much desire. But you didn’t touch yourself. You stood there with your foot on my pelvic bone. The toe of your shoe digging into my entrance. I felt heat. I felt pain. I was getting wet. I wanted to rip off my clothes and spread open my thighs and writhe on the ground. But your foot was heavy and any movement would have broken the skin of my back.



We got up walking. We were going to fuck. Your cock still pointing as if an arrow towards the spot that you’d dig it into me.



We went onto the street where my bed sheets were endlessly stretched and you told me to get on my knees. We were under the street light, it was red with no cars. The pedestrians kept walking by. You ripped open the back of her skirt. You twisted the white panties so that it bit into my clit. It ran tightly over the my pussy and was twisted so that my asshole was exposed. You made me put my face onto the ground. You made me arch my back. It wasn’t enough so you pressed down on the small of my back with one of your strong hands. While the other still had my underwear twisted in a ball over my left buttock. At this point, you said that you were going to cut me. You told me that you had the knife and then I felt my underpants being forcefully cut away. You ran the dull end of the blade against my ass. It was cold. It made me shiver. But I didn’t move. You still had your hand forcing me down, my asshole was being spread by the butt of the knife. It sent shock waves of pain throughout my body and seemed to clench all it’s energy into my clit. Tears were coming into my eyes, mixing with the street’s gravel. I wanted to move my hand to my pussy to stroke the focal point of my desire and spread the wetness around. But you weren’t penetrating me any more. You were smacking my ass cheeks with the flat of the knife. You told me my ass was red. It was now numb. I felt wetness running towards my knees and I knew that it was blood. There was a sweetness to it.



The pain that is beyond pain becomes no pain at all.



I wanted you to have your cock, it’s mushroom head inside me, I wanted to be able to watch the tip slide in, wanted to feel the whoosh of it smacking my g spot. Wanted to swallow up all of it’s weight.



The street light went from red to green and we got up.



We went into a dressing room. We kept the door open, I got undressed so quickly that I was completely naked when another couple came in. They stared at my body. My nipples were so hard and contracted they were a deep red color. You were still in your jeans and jacket, even a baseball cap so that your eyes were hidden. But your cock was out. It was a satiny ebony color, that gradually reached out to a carmine pink at it’s tip. You told them we were going to fuck. They stood in a corner and waited for us to start.



You told me to lay on my back and open up my cunt. I did. You got over me and held you cock. You put it close to my face. You put the knife close to my face. You started to slide it across my arms. Your cock still so close. The knife tickling, only barely penetrating the skin. The tiniest spots of blood were visible. The blade was razor sharp, you must have been sharpening it while you waited for me to return with a new body. It was then, when I remembered you had cut my last body in half. And I began to struggle. I was wildly contorting my hips, thrusting them under your buttocks and moving my shoulders. Doing a down dog shimmy. I could tell that my eyes were bulging, as if being asphyxiated, but was out of this visceral, all encumbering fear. At this point, you turned me over, got behind my legs and thrust your cock full hilt into my pussy. I could hear that smack sound. You started fucking as hard as you could, my pussy was hot and wet and contracting out of fear. But the momentum of your thrusts was more powerful than the ocean-like-pull that my womb had over you. You took your cock out. You made me smell it. It smelled like pussy. You made me smell the blade. It smelled like death.



You thrust it in, no longer holding the knife, you had both my wrists over my head and your other hand under my ass, with your thumb penetrating my new asshole, while at the same time pulling my hips up so high that my body made a C shape.



It seemed like your cock got even bigger. I could see the veins, you had that crazed look of pure lust. You had pulled it out. You had took my ass and pulled it up and lifted my legs back so they shot up into the air. You positioned me so that my legs were as far as they could possibly go. You stuck your nut sac into my ass crack and started to smack my clit with your incredibly hard dick. You moved in an up down movement, so that your beautiful cock would jump up and slap my aching clit. I loved looking at my new pussy. It’s light brown public hair, the erect clit, larger than my last one, and labia so small that the inner lips of the hole could have been easily seen. My head was swimming and I could feel my muscles starting to spasm, my inner ass cheeks starting to grab you balls and softly pinch them.



You rammed it in. I clenched down so hard with the muscles in my genitals that my tongue shot thru my mouth. I felt moaning coming up through chokes. You were hitting me so hard that my spine started to feel like it was buckling. The sound of your cock slamming into my pussy was so loud that I couldn’t hear the sucking sounds coming from the couple behind us. You came.



There was so much cum, that it filled my hole, you took it out long enough to spray my clit and my navel as the full pussy leaked cum into my asshole. I loved seeing the cum and my wet pussy.  You stuck it back in, while it was still firm to hit my g spot. You told me to fuck myself. I started to jack off as hard as I could, spreading the cum around my clit. Thrusting my hips as high and hard as I could so that my thigh muscles sung in agony. My ass so clenched that I could feel the cum being squeezed out. Working my fingers as hard as I could, spreading my pussy lips as open as possible. You staring down at my cunt. Your cock still inside me, moving no more, but still reasonably hard, it’s tip striking my g spot. My head shot back, my eyes rolled back, my nipples struck up and lightening ran thru my clit, rolled around my womb, shot into my asshole. Jiggled it a little, sweeping your dick further in and then nothing.



I was found later, in an empty field somewhere outside of Hollywood. Nameless, cut in half. With some strange markings sawed into my thighs and navel. My pussy cut out. Your cum gone. My eyes open and completely dry.



I woke up the next morning on a subway, heading up through Queens. There were only a few stops left and I was the only one left on the train. It seemed to be early morning, as I caught the train on the opposite platform, huddled alongside the commuters, feeling pinned against a moth like gray that was both the morning overcast, and the collection of uniformed passengers.  I was aware how my night’s harlequin face clashed with day’s brutal plain face. 



It took a long time for my eyes to clear, drinking in the passing industrial wastelands and then plunging into the still blackness of the underground. It was then that my reflection showed how beat up my face was, with a cracked lip and a bruised forehead, some marks dotting the base of my neck. At once I understood why I had felt a penetrating sinking in both my gut and brow. Realizing that my pains were physical, not metaphorical. I rode in silence, I rode for what felt like hours and put up every curtain in my house. The defiance that had been undoubtedly etched into my last conscious expression was now lost. There were no more wavering  armloads of lavender and Bulgarian rose scented through my colorings. I had become one of his drawings, a microcosm of his madness, were the greenness of my eyes had also sunk into gray.



At moments he is more a shadow than a physical human being. I started to watch one’s lips rather than their eyes. It seemed cruelty could be found in the quick spasms of the mouth, rather than the floating soul window. I started to feel like a lie detector. I was fixated on the most banal information given to me by any stranger. I wanted to take it all in so I could jump before I got stepped on. As if I was always ready to duel; in verbal assault or physical demeanor. In quickness to be impassioned, to be dominant, to be angry.  There was this nervous fidgeted movement that was translated as restless sexual energy. I was always distracted but always direct. As if I had a personal expiration for everything. It was then I donned the withdrawn feminine face. I brooded behind a head of hair, pushing my hair incessantly to dart across one eye, as if my hooded expression could be transparent and multiform.  I went on a splurge of sexual pursuits. I emboldened my stance, I walked the room as if it needed to be tamed, as if I was ringleader in a circus of my own device. 



I had changed from a child to a woman; knowing both of the pain of suffering and the need for the ego victory of power.  I started making messes out of Older Men. Seduction is easy. The art, is an art of contracting one’s personality into a little sexual ball, and throwing this ball in the direction of the seduced. Sometimes it is caught , and more often then not it will hurtle willy nilly in a completely opposite direction. It can randomly be caught unexpected by a person that it was not offered.  The sexual ball is always wiley. But it is always highly conspicuous. Everyone in it’s vicinity will watch the spectacle, regardless of their own interest. This process of slinging every possible type of carnal arrow, is to narrow your eyes as if blinded and make all of parts of

the body long and tenuous, as if you were on a steep incline or pulled up while at the same time your face slackens and eyes dilate. Carefully taking the time to stand close and, at the right moment to kiss quick and slow. As if your mouth was a soft anchor and their mouth the shore.



But to seduce is always about the act itself, not the physical person that stands enveloped by it. At the end of the night, it is not prized by your preferable partner. It is an act of power. It is an act of conquering. Love does not lie at the end of it’s rope.



I prefer to seduce an older man. The process is radically less difficult and involved than the game offered to a younger counterpart. A lonely man in it’s gaze will offer up his hands to be shackled immediately and hardly ever  be distracted by other possibilities. It has been confessed that it is hardly the act of penetration that is so pleasurable, as the potentiality for it. Especially when impotency hangs it’s ugly head over the head of the penis.



He was 51, when I was 25, he was a doctor and a triple Leo. He had a long nose that I thought always looked phallic, and had sex written all over his face. He used to ask me to sit on his face, full weight and perform sexual acts perched on top of him. It was very lonely up there, with nothing to look at, as I became a vagina

with a body attached to it. Sometimes I imagined I was giving birth to him, that his cries, muffled by my labia, were the cries of a newborn at the tragedy of life outside the womb. 



The second, had eyes that even Doestycheski would recognize on a soviet bus as crazy. His penis was thick and long, and he like to force me down by my shoulders to give him head standing up.  He had a bad back. I was always on top. Sometimes I thought that he was feigning pleasure, because he would form his mouth into an O and make Ooooh Ooooh  sounds as if talking like a baby.



The third, was so wealthy and so drunk that all I could do was spread my legs on his antique divan as he chuckled and muttered things unintelligibly. He had me sit on his lap, and then lay over his lap, making my lower back a holder for his cold gin and tonic. He slapped my ass half-heartedly, never  really making welts or redness, slapping only to hear that skin on skin sound that could be heard from his other empty rooms. He would idly trace the line of my back bone to the point that the buttocks and then hit me once hard and chuckle. The only intelligible statement he made was ’your fresh young flesh’.



But it is not this hardness, or the mania that I had developed as a woman that was my obsession. I only too clearly remembered how I was early on.  I had always looked at human face with adoration, with a sense of veneration that  only a religious child can yield. Before my sexual identity was formed I remember fixating on all things sexual, perhaps more detached, but with equal passion as I do now.  I remember seeing the neighbor boy’s  penis for the first time in a shed. I was excited only by the vulgarity of it, the rebelliousness of it; experiencing my first transgression had lit my mind like thousand offering votive. I kept a diary stuffed under my bed, in it strange school girl calculations and poems and stories I wanted my mother to find, but was equally terrified of them being found. In which I wrote or copied;



I am a fervent Catholic child

who practices silence

who humiliates her pride

who adores symbols

statues

burning incense

exalted in the eating of Christ

his body

his blood

on my knees he entered

I approximated sainthood

where there is suffering

sacrifice.

death.

To dwell on resurrection,

and the embalmed veneration

that which is the curse of Christ.



In this diary I wrote my first love story. It was of a young boy seducing an equally young girl into a porta-potty. The dance that led the two lovers together lasted forever, as I recall, through a junkyard and wasted industrial center. It was a chase, with the boy barely out of reach, but willing in a subliminal sexual way to come forth. This chase was not fast, to be more exact it was slow, with moments of balancing or precarious showman ship that was a symbol of the boy’s prowess. And alternatively the girl’s lack or grace, of her grimacing clumsiness and uncertainty caused her to be always two strides behind.



Glancing back time to time, his hair closing over his shoulder and then opened up again as the face peeked to gaze in the girls direction. She would look up, white eyed, intent of returning his stare, making her seem brazen and animal-like: exposing her sexual wantonness.  The nervousness and the fear that led the girl on, palpitating her innards, causing sweat to retch up regardless of heat and activity, put her in a swoon.  Driving those thoughts that swell up in a young girl’s twisted mind, too passive and prudent to initiate her desire, but probing the first constructions of a rape fantasy. Conscientious now of her nipples as they brushed her t-shirt, the discarded metal slicing haphazardly through the ground under her tennis shoes, all her senses were roused and made her body near weightlessness. How the ugliness of this place and the brutality seemed to excite her visions of what his palms felt around her wrists, her upper arms, forcing her body to swell and numb and break out in redness wherever he decided to touch.



I remember, now what this boy looked like, in my mind’s eye; black hair, blue eyes, jutting shoulders, thin, on the precipice of manhood. His forehead riding low in order to give him a constant criminal air. Deep set eyes that gave away nothing, maybe only momentarily their color, but never affection. Never intent. I remember what the girl looked like, not like how I was, but how I spied the girls as they undressed in the locker room. Chubby center, with small breasts that hadn’t formed yet, such small breasts that they needed no bra, the nipples infinitely soft and unresponsive. The type of girl that is always in the background. With dullish hair, dullish skin, dressed sloppily, as if she couldn’t come to terms yet with her adolescent’s body.





At the end of this pursuit, the honey bee porta-potty is spotted and the boy keeps the door opened and looks back at the girl. And she looks hesitant now,  fighting the fact that she had been wishing for a small dark close place for him to pin himself to her. Now that it was a possibility, looming in all of its’ bright blue plastic doom, she feels insecure and self conscious. Lacking the shear difficulty of motion and confronted with the weight of resignation she enters. And now, with her standing there, the stench heavy, the room awkward, the sexual anticipation coating itself so thickly as the feces in the tank, he reaches out, not for her, but for the single ply damp toilet paper, which disintegrates under his ginger touch. Fumbling now, with his adolescent boyhood overpowering (his swelling cock perhaps) he says: ‘this is shit’. And reaches over her shoulder (she is holding her breath) and pushes the door forward and out and leaves her there, the banging causing a mass orchestration of delirium as she stands alone and forgotten in a sanacan.