525 lines
32 KiB
Plaintext
525 lines
32 KiB
Plaintext
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Suicide Note
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As the last flicker of life died in my wife's eyes I looked at my hands
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around her neck and remembered that I was a religious man. Religion is
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about love, and I loved her even as I killed her but of course she didn't
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get it. If she'd gotten it maybe I wouldn't have killed her'll never know
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because I agree with the group of particle physicists who say there's
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really no such thing as if. The things we do are just events in a
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multi-dimensional universe where everything we do here has an opposite
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and equal reaction in another unseen but congruent universe. I'm not
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kidding. There really is a large group of reputable physicists whose
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study of the behavior of light quanta has led them to that conclusion.
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But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you? You're probably out
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of the same herd of one-dimensional cows as my wife. Not that I didn't
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love her.
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Not that I don't love you. I love all you credit-wearing consumer units
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who trek out each day to do the one meaningful act in your slot-track
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lives, which is...but you don't get the reference to slot-track do you?
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They were little powered cars that raced around a preconstructed track in
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slots. They got their power and direction from the slots, but I'm sure
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you didn't get the reference because they haven't been hot in over six
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years and anything that happened more than three months ago is automatically
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erased in a consumer unit's mind. Because a consumer unit's one
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meaningful function is to buy, and if your buying is to continue on
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schedule you have to forget that anything is supposed to last, including
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wisdom, truth, faith or history.
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That's why it will take most of you about a week to forget I killed my
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wife. That little fact will be erased by a blizzard of sitcom stars
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shining out at you from the supermarket tabloids that are your only
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memorable source of information. No? What do you think is the source of
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conventional wisdom? What do you remember, the fact that the latest space
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shuttle is going to carry forty-three pounds of plutonium on top of a
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liquid-fueled bomb that has a one in seventy-eight chance of exploding or
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that Rosanne Barr has become "difficult"? The fact that forty-three
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pounds of plutonium is enough to give every person on the planet lung
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cancer or that the president didn't catch any fish while he was on
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vacation? Not that you'll remember who Rosanne Barr or the president is
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in a few years.
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Remember this though, as you take your daily tabloid pill from Doctor
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Rather. It's something you might even be able to recall at the end of the
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evening when Cosby's sent the kids to bed for you and you're tired of
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struggling through those long sentences in TV Guide. There's a darkness
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that doesn't need night to come because it's there waiting behind
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whatever it is you don't know you desire. And there is a witchcraft that
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doesn't need a full moon because the moon always orbits full around the
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dark side of any light you care to name, including television screens,
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including love.
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And love is what religion is all about. Did I tell you I was a religious
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man? Religion: sin and redemption. That's what religion was originally
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about. Sin is a word you'll never see in the tabloids unless it's a quote
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from one of the wig-merchant preachers who use it as a crowbar to pry
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open the poor. And I know to that to most of you redemption is a tax
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refund, but originally it meant forgiveness for your sins, and better
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yet, release from them.
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That was the problem; I wanted forgiveness but not release because my sin
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was feeling like God. Redemption would have meant giving up that feeling,
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and I couldn't. God: I still capitalize his name; an affectionate
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gesture. He can't help it if he inspires emulation and I can't help it if
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I emulate. Can you see the bind I'm in? I still believe in God but resent
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him deeply for creating me in his image. That's what the bible says, you
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know. He created us in his image. So what are we supposed to do about
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this potential for cheap imitation?
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I mean just what the hell was I supposed to do after the first time Sella
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lay facedown across the motel bed, midnight hair spread on the floor, and
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said in her little tin growl, "You can do anything to me you want, anything."
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That's what she said. Then she raised the short leather skirt, showing me
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the straps of the garter belt as they extended up the tightly flared
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white of her thighs like the tails of a lash. Then she rose to her knees
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and with a soft grunt pulled the skirt to her waist. She was small and
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thin, but her ass flared wide and pulsed outward like some giant white
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heart. It was shocking in its solid abundance, a secret thrill that only
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the favored could know. She raised it higher and as it swayed there over
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her head the little growl in her voice was changed to a light shriek by
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the way her face was pressed into the mattress. "Anything," she said
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again. "Anything you want. You can hurt me. I like to be hurt. I like to
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be humiliated. I'll do anything you say. I deserve it."
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I swayed on my feet as the blood rushed from my head to my groin and back
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again. I felt like I was expanding in all directions. She meant it. She
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was giving me power, Godlike power. Sure. it was a cheap imitation, like
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a little electric shock compared to a lightning bolt, but it was the
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closest I'd ever come. I know a lot of you consumer units are thinking
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you would have refused, saved by the atheism of your dead imaginations.
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And maybe you would have. But that wouldn't have saved you because any of
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you who've ever come but once would have asked yourselves why. Women too,
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if Sella had been a man, and she could have been, if she wanted you to
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think so. And the question why is the thing that puts the first hole in
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the safety of your ignorance. It's the question that comes for you when
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bad things happen, and they will, because I met Sella.
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Through some helix of irony that now seems as fated as poisoned strands of
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DNA I met her through my wife. My wife's name is, excuse me, was Marian.
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She was a tall honey blonde with a face like Meryl Streep's plumper
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sister and one of those big-boned Minnesota Swede bodies. You know, a
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hundred and forty pounds maybe but not fat, just big through the
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shoulders with cream-pie breasts and haunches instead of hips. She was
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about a half-inch taller than me and very attractive in an earthbound
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way. I admired her. She had intelligence and guts. As I was strangling
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her, just as her face turned purple, she whacked me so hard I had a
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bruise on the side of my face for a week. I don't say that to be crude,
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just to illustrate one of her better qualities. If I was able I'd miss
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her, but of course I'm no longer able. To miss her I'd have to imagine
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she was real and people are just a collection of feelings, aren't they?
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When I killed her I took those feelings which comprised the entity
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named Mirian into myself. So she's just as real now as before. That's a
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concept I wasn't conscious of when I met Sella in the discussion group.
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Mirian was a sociology instructor at the local community college. She was
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heading an adult education seminar on modern mores or some such thing and
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asked me if I wanted to participate. I didn't, but she'd been carping
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about me showing no interest in her career, so I agreed to sit in a few
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times just to see what she was up to. We decided to keep the fact that I
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was her husband a secret so it didn't inhibit the group or me.
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My eyes locked onto Sella as soon as I entered the room. She was wearing
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a black sheath dress with black hose that matched the crow-wing sheen of
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her hair. She had a long thin face that suggested an American Indian , or
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rather an Indian's idea of someone he might come across in a forbidden
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part of the desert: tomahawk cheekbones and a mouth so wide it made the
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rest of her face look like something it had kissed into existence. Her
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nose was a bit too long and had a cruel little hook to it that matched
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the one at the corner of her cunt-curl mouth. It was her eyes though that
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locked onto mine and sucked my brain to climax. They were as ice gray and
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hungry as those of an arctic wolf; tundra eyes reflecting the hiss of
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some winter sun that lay deep-gone over the horizon.
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She said nothing in the session; an attitude souffle about honesty that
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was punctured every time Sella moved her eyes from my crotch to my face
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and back again. She flicked them at first and then did it slower,
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hungrier each time with a kind of tongue-lolling languor that made me
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feel like I was being licked all over. Sometime during the middle of all
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that she began showing me flashes of thigh, crossing her legs, slumping a
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little in her chair so the sheath rose higher, then uncrossing her legs.
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It took only a few minutes of that for me to realize from the black and
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white contrast of her upper thighs that she was wearing a garter belt and
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stockings. There may be a man over the age of thirty-five somewhere who
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isn't aroused by a garter belt and stockings on a pair of high-flow legs,
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but don't trust him because he's a liar.
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When we were boys all women wore them and women is what we wanted. Girls
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knew it and wore them too. I spent untold classroom hours looking for
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that not-too-subtle tan-white promise I'd somehow seen in prepuberty
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fever dreams. That night in my wife's classroom with Sella I was doing it
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again; feeling overheated and dizzy, becoming more capable of rape by the
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minute. Ten minutes before the end of class she crossed her legs one last
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time, took off one high heel, and used her architecturally arched foot to
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massage the back of her other leg up to the knee, down to the heel,
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slowly, tongue slowly. The slight buzz of nylon against nylon sounded as
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faint and plain as a zipper in a dark room. Five minutes before the end
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of class I left and waited at a far turn in the hall so I could catch her
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while Marian was collecting her papers.
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Sella knew. I saw her wait until the rest of the class was almost to me
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before she started down the hall; her breasts small enough to move free
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inside the knit sheath; ram's-head nipples butting strong against rolling
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black circles. She had an insect-thin waist and a swaybacked walk
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propelled by an ass so mobile you could see it move from the front. The
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others were already out the door when she got to me. I was going to step
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in front of her but she stopped, turned, faced me with those ice-dog eyes
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and said in a voice like a fingernail on my spine, "Marian is talking
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about honesty with a student. She'll probably be about five minutes."
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Then she looked at my crotch again and up to my eyes, emitting something
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between a sigh and a groan as she did. It was that little tin shriek that
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was to become so loud in the upcoming months that it was all I could hear.
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I grabbed her by the upper arm and yanked her around the corner. She gave
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me a little groan again but didn't resist. "Why?" I asked. "Why were you
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doing that?"
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She turned so that one of her breasts kissed the back of my hand. "You
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mean trying to show you I wasn't wearing any panties?" she said in her
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little growl.
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I released her arm and leaned against the wall, attacked again by fever
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dreams. She stepped forward so that the rounds of her thighs hugged my
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legs. "You didn't notice," she said. "I tried to show you but you didn't
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notice."
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"Why?" I managed to croak. "Why are you doing this?"
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She rocked a little on my leg, raising the knit dress as she did so,
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bringing raw nylon in contact in contact with the jeans I was wearing.
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"Because I can always spot a husband," she growl whispered close to my
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ear. "You're Marian's husband, and I like husbands."
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"Why?"
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"Because I'm bad." She whimpered a little, a sound that made me ashamed
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for her, and hard. "Because I'm bad," she said. "I'm so bad only a man
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who's being bad can give me what I need."
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I almost walked away but I felt the wet breath of her sentence on my
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neck. "And what's that?" I asked instead.
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She gave the tin growl as she rocked on my leg so hard that the dress
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slipped above the top of her stocking and I felt white thigh-fever
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against my leg. She leaned forward into my neck and slipped a piece of
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paper into my pocket. "Anything you tell me I need," she said. "And I
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mean it." Then she leaned back, looked at her watch, and said, "Five
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minutes, don't forget I mean it."
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She went out the door in a way that made me wish I was a door and I was
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alone against the wall, dripping sweat onto my shirt, prostate fluid into
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my pants.
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That night in bed with Marian I was like a lion on an antelope. I wanted
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to draw blood. I wanted to crack her spine. Our marriage had always
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included regular sex but the method was always what magazines with douche
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ads call "comfortable." Marian would lie on her back or, when she was
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especially passionate, on top of me and give out a few oohs and a "that's
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nice" or two then come with all the regularity and passion of the morning
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newspaper.
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The night I met Sella Marian sweated like a boar and grunted like a sow.
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She trashed and raked me and even tried to throw me off but I'd just flip
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her into a new position and drive on because my semen was boiling inside
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me and I wanted to make it hurt her as much as it was hurting me. She
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made birth sounds and came three times, but afterward she looked at me
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from the other side of the bed like I'd suddenly grown fangs. "You
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frightened me," she said in an apprehensive voice.
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"You came three times," I answered in my defense.
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"I didn't even know it," she said. "I was lost."
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It was then that I felt the beginnings of power, the thrill of subsuming
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another person into your desires, making them a seed out of which your
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fulfillment grows. If she had only agreed to it things might have been
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different but of course it was her fate to die rather than agree to it
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just like religion tells us. You know, disobedience is sin and the wages
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of sin is death. It's right there in the Bible, you could look it up but
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you won't. You'll just go on reading douche magazines and believing in
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"relationships" that are "comfortable."
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That's what Marian wanted to do. After a bout with Godlike sex during
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which she came three times and couldn't remember two of them all she
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could say was that she wanted to know it when she came. Mind you, she
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didn't deny she came three times but she wanted to know when, wanted to
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enjoy it. She went to heaven but didn't like it because she couldn't
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remember the address. She wanted low-fat no-cholesterol bite-sized safe
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sex instead of pig-slop pleasure, and it killed her. Because then I knew.
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I knew I had to have Sella and once I had Sella I had to have it all. If
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Marian had only submitted it might have saved us both. After all, Abraham
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was willing to kill his son for God. All Marian had to do was be a sex
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object. Not that I think I'm God. What a cliche. I don't even want to be
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God. I just want to feel like him. It's not my fault. I didn't make the
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world but if I had I wouldn't have told my children they were created in
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my image. I'd have let them come without knowing it just like I did
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Marian. I tried to save her but she'd too many douche ads to accept dirty
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love. So I had to find another way to love her. I learned that way from
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Sella.
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"I know what you want," she said on the phone, and told me to name the
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time and place, any time and place. I did. The next day I found myself in
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a room watching Sella rock the garter-whipped purity of her veinless
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white ass against the darkness while begging me to hurt her. And I did. I
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whipped her. I told her to stay in exactly that position while I whipped
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her with my belt and every time she moved I whipped her some more. When I
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saw her skin beginning to redden to the point of blood I stopped until it
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passed but I told her stay in that position the whole time.She did. It
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was a transcendent experience. At first I could see her whole body in all
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its pornographic glory as I vented my anger at Marian on it. Sella's ass
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shook with each blow, sending ripples of force up each side of her body
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to her breasts and down her legs where they straightened her toes. The
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more I whipped her the angrier I became at Marian for refusing to allow
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me to stop of what I was now doing. Because I would never have whipped
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Marian, unless she'd asked me and of course she wouldn't have asked me.
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Not that I'd have wanted to. She wasn't built for it; too big, too
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unsegmented. It would have been as erotic as driving a mule team.
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I would have continued normal animal sex with her though, watching the
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sweat splash as she flopped around the bed, but she wouldn't and that
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made me mad, which sent me to Sella who received anger like an offering,
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which after a while it was. Because after the first flush I got when I
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realized I was actually whipping her, after the first time I'd rested so
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she wouldn't mar the occasion by bleeding, I ceased to see her body at
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all. Rather I ceased to see her as a body. The blackness of her dress
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blended with the dark of the room and the white of her skin with the
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lightness of bed and bathroom beyond until I imagined myself alone in the
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room and her ass a blank page upon which I was writing a save-me note to
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the world. The more I whipped the more articulate I became, the tip of my
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belt landing just where I aimed and eliciting a different note in the
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continuous keening wail that came from Sella but which seemed to come out
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of my own screaming frustration at being locked onto two legs in a world
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that is mostly air. When I became aware of Sella's noises I stopped
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writing and became a musician. Every cry of rage or pleasure or fear or
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want I'd ever felt in my life I was able to bring to her lips through the
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instrument of my belt, and as it got more accurate and more intense there
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was no remaining difference between Sella, the room, and myself. I was
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creating a world through the mediums of pain and violence and I didn't
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stop until she became me and I was feeling the burn in my head more
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strongly than she on her skin and we were two poles of an electrical
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field so strong that if anyone else had touched the belt at that moment
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it would have killed them.
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It was in that moment that I drew the belt aside, leapt onto the bed, and
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shoved into her like a coked-up angel sent by the Almighty to cuckold
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Lucifer, and the only way to cuckold Lucifer is to give his wife more of
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what she wants than he does. So I used myself as a weapon. I banged
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against the backs of her thighs so hard that her head drummed against the
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bedboard with the doomlike thud of the slave-master's hammer on a galley
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ship. I bit her and slapped her and bent her into positions that made her
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nothing but an orifice with a body attached. And I used every orifice she
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had, finishing with the one Lucifer likes the most; the one that makes
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the cunt seem like a debutante at her coming out party, the one on the
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side of town where the lights never shine, the gateway to the gardens of
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perversion where the black roses of hubris grow out of wells of dark
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satin. And as I did it I could read her spine from the inside and it
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said, "Yours is the thing that writes the limits of my life. Yours is the
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alchemy that changes my pain to bone and my bone to come." And I did it
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harder and her wail swallowed itself into a muted roaring grunt so I
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could feel it sitting on the end of my spear, and as I came I could see
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the limits of my life expand like the speed and reach of the universe. I
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could squeeze air and feel it run between my fingers. I could bite
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minutes and feel the seconds run down my chin. Afterward I couldn't
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remember coming. I was lost.
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I don't remember how many times I saw Sella after that, only that they
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were never enough and the times between felt like a flourescent dream
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from which I wanted to awake. Each time I entered a shady motel room with
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Sella felt like balm to a burn wound and each time I came out I felt like
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I'd been singed all over and needed the balm worse than before.
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Whatever I did she wanted more. I tied her hair to the top of the bed,
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wrapped a rope around her feet, and pulled her taut using the bathroom
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doorknob as a pulley. She spread her arms and called it flying through
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hell, and asked for more. I had her suck me until her neck was stiff and
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her jaws were sore and when I needed time to keep from coming I made her
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use that time to suck everything else in the room; table legs, doorknobs,
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bathtub fixtures, her own toes. She called it tasting exotic fruit and
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asked for more. I used appliances on her; an electric shoe shine machine,
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a slow-turning power drill with a sponge bottle washer attached, a wire
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attached to a tape-player's LED flashers so that small shocks were
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delivered in time to the music. She called it lips of fire and came until
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she cried, and asked for more.
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And me? My days were like slow-flying mud and my time with Marian like a
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sensory deprivation tank without the hallucinations. I began taking time
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off from work to meet Sella. I bought leather outfits from Frederick's,
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whips and harnesses from feed stores, new appliances from hardware
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stores, liquor by the case, and drugs by the kilo because they all
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enhanced the erotic imagination and Sella wanted more. And as she got it
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Marian got less and noticed. She also noticed our dwindling bank account
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and my decreasing weight. I was getting quite thin and liking it because
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I was able to fit into the zipper front leather bikini underwear which
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never seems to come in husky sizes. She wondered about the porno films I
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rented for posture concepts and the two pack a day cigarette habit I'd
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picked up because they enhanced the drugs and were handy for inflicting
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controlled burns. She nagged about them all and said she'd think I was
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having an affair but I didn't have the look of love. She didn't know much
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about the look of lust so she chalked my behavior up to a mid-life
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crisis. Unintentional irony is, after all, the hallmark of the uninformed.
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And it was an ironic statement because I was about to face the crisis
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that sealed both our fates and many of yours. It began when I met Sella
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at the motel we'd been using because it was fairly soundproof and had a
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bed that was anchored to the floor. She was dressed in the outfit she'd
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worn the first night I whipped her: leather skirt short enough to show
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the fasteners on her garter belt, black silk blouse sheer enough to show
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her nipple erections. The outfit summoned up a wave of nostalgia in me
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and I decided to whip her again just like our first time but this time
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she called it old and said it wasn't enough. She sat up, slithered off
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the bed, sat at my feet, and said in a pouty little groan, "Ooh, I feel
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like such a bad girl tonight. This just isn't enough to hurt it out of
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me. I need something special, something very special."
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I asked her what and she told me I had to be in charge, that it wouldn't
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do any good for her to think of it. She asked me to go home and think of
|
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something really special and then come back, without phoning in advance,
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walk in the room and just do it, whatever it was, just do it. She said
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she'd wait there until I came back, even if it was days or even weeks.
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That's how bad she needed me to do it.
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|
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On my way home I suddenly realized that God chose to be love instead of
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pain because it's so much easier. All you have to do to love is just do
|
|
it, just open your arms and passively let it flow. Pain requires
|
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imagination, constant innovation. And that is of course the reason why
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humans are only a cheap imitation of God and Satan a very good imitation
|
|
of humans. We're all in his image and have a taste for it. But the only
|
|
kingdom we can be masters of is the kingdom of pain, which requires
|
|
constant thought, which induces fatigue and depression, which causes us
|
|
to be tired and pitiable creatures which makes us even easier to love.
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|
You can't win.
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|
|
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That's the state of mind I was in when I got home to Marian that night
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and she started on me about money. The bank statement had come and she
|
|
couldn't help but notice the dent my last cocaine buy had put in our
|
|
funds. She wanted to know what all that money was for. And, by the way,
|
|
why had the latest Frederick's fall catalog come in that day's mail? She
|
|
even hinted that I might be a transvestite. I considered it for a minute
|
|
but decided that wasn't what Sella had meant by something special. Sella!
|
|
What the hell did she want? How far into cruelty could I go without
|
|
rounding the bend into love? Then I realized that was it, the most
|
|
dangerous thing to Sella of all, a thing so cruel that it stopped just
|
|
short of love. I knew what she must want.
|
|
|
|
Marian was in my face, literally, leaning in, waving the bank statement
|
|
under my nose. I stared blankly at her face and thought of all the times
|
|
we'd seen each other through. Hard economic times when we were both still
|
|
in school. Hard emotional times when members of our families had died. I
|
|
knew I loved her with an intensity just short of hate. Ah hell, what are
|
|
we to do about this capacity for cheap imitation? And I was an imitator,
|
|
a sincere flatterer, a man in desperate need of something special,
|
|
something to keep him from the land of the ordinary. My blood now flowed
|
|
too fast for me to go back to being God's navel or the devil's fantasy. I
|
|
needed something special to stay king in the kingdom of Sella. I needed
|
|
something on the cusp of love and hate.
|
|
|
|
Marian was in my face, shouting for my attention, and I gave it to her. I
|
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reached out, hoping she would understand, and put my hands around her
|
|
neck, just as an experiment at first, to see if I was on the right track.
|
|
Then I started to squeeze. The more I squeezed the more I realized it was
|
|
what Sella wanted. They say hanged men die with a hard-on and I knew
|
|
strangulation would give Sella the biggest orgasm of her life and that
|
|
once she had it there would be no repeating it so she wouldn't want to
|
|
live anyway. And without Sella I could never go back to Marian no matter
|
|
how much I loved her. I had the power over all of us at that moment and I
|
|
took it, rather I thought I took it. Now I can see it took me. An
|
|
imitation's not the real thing after all, is it? But once I was squeezing
|
|
I kept on, feeling myself emigrate permanently into the realm of
|
|
imitation power as I did it. I was still a religious man but then so was
|
|
Lucifer. Let me tell all you consumer units who only read parts of the
|
|
Bible quoted in the elevator version of Bob Dylan songs that Lucifer was
|
|
an angel who became the devil when he decided to be equal to God. He
|
|
became a real imitation rather than a fake original.
|
|
|
|
After killing Marian I raced to the motel, knowing that Sella would
|
|
appreciate it all, that she'd been waiting there for me to kill her. I
|
|
could hardly wait to hear her groan with pleasure when I told her. I was
|
|
on fire with the thought of finally uniting her and Marian in my hands,
|
|
of squeezing my two great loves into one.
|
|
|
|
But she wasn't there. All I found was a garter belt lying like a black
|
|
corsage on top of a pair of black bikini underwear. A white note lay in
|
|
jarring contrast on top of the small pile of nylon. I read the hooked
|
|
scrawl: "As you can see I'm not here, and I'm still not wearing any
|
|
panties. As you know, witch rhymes with bitch. Now you know I'm one. I'll
|
|
leave it up to you to decide whether I'm the other. I know we'll meet
|
|
again when you become really special. Until then I'm always yours in
|
|
pain. Sella."
|
|
|
|
So good-bye, kind world. This is my last note to you, and my only
|
|
warning. Like all religious men I know that there is only one sin God
|
|
will not forgive and that is the sin of rejecting forgiveness. And sadly,
|
|
I reject it because I have discovered that Sella was the bitch and I am
|
|
the witch. In using her as a window to the caverns of pain where the fires
|
|
of small power burn I cast a spell on myself. Now I sit in those vaginal
|
|
halls on a throne of God's excrement beside a river of blood where I
|
|
baptize myself daily in dreams of Sella's neck gripped in my hands as I
|
|
squeeze in masturbatory pleasure. As she dies maybe the spell will be
|
|
broken and I can accept the forgiveness that lies just across the now
|
|
impassable membrane where love meets power.
|
|
|
|
The problem is though, that to find her I must remember her and I can
|
|
only remember her through action. So, just as Marian did, the ones of you
|
|
I select will in your final moments become Sella. I will love you as I
|
|
loved her and some of you will in those moments find that you love me.
|
|
Yes, it's true, you will. Because you are consumer units and each
|
|
purchase is nothing but a small and thrilling act of submission, a
|
|
voyeur's ticket to the kingdom of pain.
|
|
|
|
So as you stare at your televisions each night, know that I am the dark
|
|
moon that orbits full behind the piano key grins and the toylike wrecks
|
|
of the expendable cars. I'm the darkness in the center of the mother's
|
|
whispered douche advice to daughter. I'm here, behind the tube, outside
|
|
the window, and around any impulse you might have to leave fake reality
|
|
for real imitation.
|
|
|
|
I wait for you.
|
|
I want you.
|
|
I need you.
|
|
I Love you.
|
|
And, to paraphrase that most romantic of songs: You always love the
|
|
one you hurt.
|
|
|
|
|
|
(submitted anonymously)
|
|
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, etc etc... =
|
|
= Internet : jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
= gote land +27.31.441115 =
|
|
= Arrested Development +31.77.3547477 =
|
|
= Global Chaos +61.2.681.2837 =
|
|
= Chemical Persuasion 203.324.0894 Undrgrnd Indust/Inc. 207.490.2158 =
|
|
= Damnation 212.861.0580 Damnation -Toll Free 888.803.8490 =
|
|
= Hacker's Haven 303.516.9969 Unholiness Rising 303.980.2404 =
|
|
= E.L.F. (NUP) 314.272.3426 Misery 318.625.4532 =
|
|
= Dungeon Sys. Inc. 410.263.2258 Psykodelik Images -- Down -- =
|
|
= Paradise Lost 414.476.3181 Black SunShine 513.891.3465 =
|
|
= underworld_1995.com 514.683.1894 Digital Fallout 516.378.6640 =
|
|
= PSYCHOSiS 613.836.7211 Bad Trip 615.870.8805 =
|
|
= Plan 9 716.881.3663 suicidal chaos 718.592.1083 =
|
|
= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
|
|
= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 BloodNet 901.872.8615 =
|
|
= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
|
|
= The Keg 914.234.9674 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
= Files through AnonFTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
|
|
= FTP.LEMMING.COM/pub/zines/fucked.up.college.kids =
|
|
= FTP.PRISM.NET/pub/users/mercuri/zines/fuck =
|
|
= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
|
|
= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
|
|
= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU - /pub/Zines/FUCK =
|
|
= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
|
|
= http://www.prism.net/zineworld/fuck/ =
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
= (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author =
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
(12/5/96)
|