Paraphilia
Games Perverts Play
www.gamespervertsplay.wordpress.com
Edited By: Quiet Riot Girl
www.quietgirlriot.wordpress.com
Contents
A Good Andromimetophile is Hard to Find Elliott Deline
Cyclesexuals Mark Simpson
Keep Your Friends Closer Dan Holloway
Love Pig Penny Goring
Breakdown Quiet Riot Girl
Things Base and Vile Magda Sullivan
Don’t Be It, Dream It Natty Soltesz
Waiting Roland Barthes
The Opposite Of Marriage Elise Moore
Monstersexuality James Maker
A Good Andromimetophile is Hard to Find
“No one is available on Mondays,” the receptionist said. She was a stout woman, with curly grey hair and glasses. Probably a volunteer.
“But you’re called AIDS Community Resources…” he said, with obvious attitude, “there has to be someone I can see.”
“Not til next week. And…” she checked a calendar, “All appointments look booked.”
“Is there somewhere else I can go? A number I can call?”
“Well, they do STD testing at the County Health Center, but I don’t know when. Here’s the number.”
She begrudgingly handed it over, avoiding the touch of his hand.
He sat in his car with his cell phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Hi there. ACR in Syracuse told me you could possibly give me a free STD test?”
“No, I’m sorry, those are only on Thursdays,” the man said, “And we aren’t doing them this week. We’ll be at the ACR building in Syracuse next week to perform them.”
“That’s where I am now. They said they’re booked next week.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. Well, good luck to you sir. Try for the following week.”
“Is there nowhere I can go? I’ll travel if I have to.”
“Well, the Civic Center in Syracuse. They actually do free testing daily.”
He ended the call, annoyed. No one was going to tell him that?
He drove right down the street to the Civic Center.
He walked up to a kiosk where a young, attractive blond woman was sifting through papers. She ignored him.
“Hi,” he finally said, “Could you tell me--”
“You want room 8,” she said, giving him a bemused and disgusted look up and down.
“Excuse me? I--”
“STD testing, room 8,” she said, gesturing at a pair of young black girls chatting loudly and heading down the hall. “Follow them.”
He sat in room 8, filling out the forms. He left “Gender” blank until the end. He eventually decided to make his own box. Next to it, he wrote “FtM” and put a check mark. He returned the forms and received a number.
He sat in a plastic chair, avoiding eye contact with the mostly female occupants of the room, some with small children. The walls were covered in posters about safe sex, and tables were covered with pamphlets on every STD and drug under the sun, written in English and Spanish. A cheesy, patronizing video—the kind one would watch in Health class—played on loop.
He texted the man for the first time since the previous night.
-Hey, we didn’t use protection. You didn’t cum, right?
-Nope. You?
-No. But I never do.
-That’s really sad :(
- You’re sure you’re HIV negative right?
-Yeah, I got tested like a week ago.
-How long since you had sex before me?
-2 months, with my ex.
-Ok. But it takes 3 months to show up on a test…
-Trust me, I get checked all the time. I don’t have HIV. I’m not some sort of asshole.
-Ok. But if you get a test soon, we can both know for sure.
He pressed send just as the nurse called his number.
“So I’ll take a swab from the tip of your penis…” the nurse said, filling out a blue sheet of paper. They were seated in a small doctors’ room. She was short, thin, probably in her mid fifties, but looked older.
He blushed. “Oh, I’m…well…have you heard of transgender?”
The woman stared for awhile before responding. “Yes?”
“Well I am. Female to male. So I have a…vagina.”
She bit her lip, thinking. “So are you female or male?”
“Well, I…have a…vagina.” Long pause. “I was born female.”
“So you’re a female.” She rolled her eyes, ripping up the sheet and grabbing a new, pink one, with a drawing of ovaries and fallopian tubes. “From now on, save us time and put that on the sheet. It said you were male.”
“I put that I was FtM. That stands for female-to-male.”
“Well, they crossed that out and checked male for you because of how you look.”
“Oh.”
“In that case, I’ll need a pap smear. I’ll leave while you get undressed.”
Each crank hurt like hell. He’d learned to tolerate doctors staring at him with his legs spread from experience. But the pain made it hard to dissociate. And when she scraped something deep with a large cue tip, the shooting pain brought back memories of the previous night. How bizarre, to hold this pose again so soon under such different circumstances. It made the fucking seem invasive in retrospect.
The nurse pulled out. “Alright, we’ll have some results on Wednesday, so just drop by and sign in. Then it’ll be another 3 months before HIV would show up.”
“Thank you.”
“And remember, put female on medical forms. Until you have a penis, you’re a female.”
Two months later he was bored and on Craigslist again. Someone had posted an ad that caught his eye. “LOST CAUSE” it said. He clicked. There was a picture of the man who fucked him. The ad said:
BE CAREFUL THERE ARE GUYS ON HERE WHO WANNA GIVE PEOPLE HIV ON PURPOSE I SLEPT AROUND AND NOW I FOUND OUT I HAVE HIV I CANT SAY FOR FROM WHO BUT BE CAREFUL!!!
He emailed the anonymous address.
-Did we hook up? Is that your picture in the ad?
-No, but that’s the guy who gave me HIV!!! he’s sick and does it on purpose. HELP THE COMMUNITY, EXPOSE THIS PERVERT NIGGER!!
The boy winced and closed out of the window. It seemed like a lie. It was probably a vengeful ex, or someone who’d been rejected, or just some racist psycho starting shit. He texted the man.
-You see the post online?
-I’m suing that guy for libel yeah. Can you help me out and tell me his email address?
-He says you have HIV.
-I dont believe this is bullshit. I really liked u and it takes something like this to get you to text me?
-I said it was a one time thing. I’m sorry, I had no idea you were hurt.
-Well I really like u
-Listen I wont know my HIV results til September. Can you go with me to the civic center just to get the rapid-result test? Just to ease my mind? Takes 10 min.
-I have work and school I cant just drop everything
-Please. anytime. Ill skip work if I have to.
-This is bullshit. I hate gay men. This is why I stuck with women for awhile, I dont need this drama.
-So you won’t go?
- I got the test results right on my desk! I’m clean alright?
-Can I drive over and see it?
-I’m going away for work tonight.
-Can you text a pic?
-I really liked you. I hoped we’d have a regular thing maybe even something more. I cant believe you think that of me.
-I told you I wasn’t looking for anything long term.
-Well I at least wanted to fuck you one more time. It was so good. You have a nice vagina.
The boy’s eyes welled up with tears. He could hear the word nice in his head, like frat boys over beers. “So I totally nailed her. She had such a tight pussy man. I destroyed that thing.” “Nice.”
-I don’t care to hear that. Don’t text again.
***
He kicked a pebble into the water and watched as the circles spread outward, like sonic waves, and then disappeared.
Closing his eyes and inhaling through his nostrils, the lake air smelled like fish and algae. Regardless, he decided it was time. He removed all his garments, climbed atop the railing, and, after a moment’s hesitation, leapt into the dark water.
It was pleasantly cool—not a shock to his system but a rejuvenation. He stayed submerged for several seconds, swimming near the rocky bottom, spreading his arms and open palms in a cyclical manner to propel forward. When he reached the sand bar, he came up for air, sputtering like humans always do.
He slicked back his hair and then ran his hands over his chest. It was largely numb, but that wasn’t uncommon. His scars were a purplish white.
His lower half was still submerged. He looked at it, glowing whitish green beneath the water. Like all ‘biological females’ on testosterone, his clit was a two inch, uncircumcised dick. The rest wasn’t visible to him without a mirror. It was only really seen by others.
“Nice.”
He did a shallow dive and swam some more. Soon his mind went blank. He felt wonderfully alive and at peace, the way he imagined many people did making love. It was the first time he’d ever done this naked, and there seemed almost a symbolic, baptismal quality. He was an atheist, but felt the touch of something divine caressing his skin.
There was no one in sight, so he stood up in the shallows. He rested his hands on his glowing white ass and leaned his head back, looking up at the stars. The Syracuse pollution dimmed them, but out here in Cicero, further north of the city, it was a regular planetarium. He closed his eyes, content.
He resented the possibility of more doctors, more medications, more stigmas, more secrets he wouldn’t know when to disclose…more reasons to be untouchable. An early death.
Yet there he was, knee deep in the lake water, smiling, wiggling his toes and watching the mini, underwater sand storms stir up and then calm again. He wasn’t afraid. His body was something miraculous and self-healing, like a starfish. It wasn’t teen-like impudence. He knew in his soul he would never wither.
He remembered their naked bodies pressed together. The rhythm. The strange and wonderful feeling of his entry, before the sobering pain.
Come what may. He regretted nothing.
Copyright 2011 Elliott DeLine. All rights reserved.
Cyclesexuals
A 51-year-old man caught by cleaners ‘simulating sex’ with a bicycle in his locked room in a hostel in Ayr, Scotland has been sentenced to three years probation and has been added to the Sex Offenders Register.
“In almost four decades in the law I thought I had come across every perversion known to mankind,” opined the presiding judge (talking I presume about the cases he had heard rather than other judges). “But this is a new one on me. I have never heard of a ‘cycle-sexualist’.”
Reportedly the cleaners used a master key to unlock the door and they then observed the offender “wearing only a white t-shirt, naked from the waist down… holding the bike and moving his hips back and forth as if to simulate sex.”
Both cleaners, who were “extremely shocked”, told the hostel manager who called police.
Some bleeding-heart louche metropolitan types have whinged that this case a ridiculous over-reaction and waste of judicial resources – or even, honestly!, a worrying invasion of privacy and attack on personal liberty.
What a load of inner tubes. Thank goodness someone has had the courage to take a stand against this evil vice threatening the very lycra of our society. Not to mention undermining attempts to combat Global Warming, obesity and urban congestion. Personally I think the fiend should have been given a lengthy custodial sentence and banned for life from being within 100 yards of a bike-stand.
Contrary to the ridiculous arguments of liberals, the wicked exploitation by sick perverts like this of innocent, helpless bicycles to gratify their twisted lust is not a victimless crime. How can a bicycle give consent? By pinging its own bell? Changing gear? Increasing tyre pressure? Obviously not. Any sex act with a bicycle is by definition unconsensual. Not to mention rather uncomfortable.
And what about the corrupting effect of this pedalistic depravity on those unfortunate enough to view it, even if they have to barge into someone’s locked bedroom to do so? Or the wider effect on society? The vile degradation and contamination of the entirely clean and pure pleasure of riding a bike to work, firm leather saddle chafing between thighs, pressing insistently, teasingly, against one’s freshly-talced but now nicely moistening Perineum?
If these cyclesexual monsters aren’t stopped, we’ll have to pixelate the TV coverage of the Tour de France and even episodes of Miss Marple.
Come to think of it, for the sake of even-handedness, the authorities should also arrest self-confessed petrosexual Top Gear presenter Jeremy Clarkson. After all, he doesn’t even have the decency to conduct his perversion in private: those close-ups of Jezza all glassy-eyed and foam-flecked in the latest Ferrari, playing with its chunky gear-lever moaning and sighing how much he really, really LOVES, no, LURRRRRRVES, this SEXY, FRISKY, FOXY, BEAUTY… go out in prime-time.
OK, I’ll admit there are some very minor details of this case that could perhaps be slightly clarified. What, for instance, does the court mean by ‘simulating sex’? Does it mean that the man was pretending to have sex with the bicycle, or that he wasn’t enjoying sex with the bicycle? If the former then perhaps he and the bike were just having a laugh after the pub like lads do, if the latter then he isn’t much of a pervert.
Or does ‘simulating’ mean that, yes, he was having some kind conjugation with the bicycle, but the court calls it ‘simulated’ because, of course, you can’t actually have proper, natural, godly, man-woman baby-making sex with a bicycle – unless it’s had some major modifications. Like a vagina fitted under the saddle.
And why on earth did the hostel allow its residents to take bikes up to their bedrooms after dark?
I also wonder somewhat about the hostel cleaners. They claim they ‘knocked several times’ before using their master-key to open the door, but I find that difficult to believe.
I mean, how many of the cleaners in five star hotels give you enough time between knocking and opening the door to allow you a chance to disentangle yourself from the Corby Trouser Press?
————
NB to protect the innocent, the bicycle pictured is not the unfortunate victim, which is currently undergoing therapy. And talks with Max Clifford.
Keep Your Friends Closer
That thing about keeping your enemies closer. I never understood that. I never really had enemies, I guess. I don’t really know what I’d do with an enemy, what they’re for.
Steve was talking about “the man” like he always did. I was drinking espresso with half my mind remembering not to let on to Steve what I was thinking, and the other half doing the thinking I needed not to let on about.
“The man” was Steve’s enemy. Steve wanted to “stick it to the man.” Apparently throughout history “the man” had clung onto power for the sole purpose of using his power to piss on the likes of me and Steve.
“I don’t smell piss,” I said because it seemed like the right thing to do to keep Steve happily chuntering so the two parts of my head could get on with their job of thinking but not letting Steve see what I was thinking.
Sure enough he started up again with the kind of wind-up spring energy that wasn’t going to run down for a few minutes yet.
Steve was my best friend. I guess he’d been my best friend since I can remember. At school we sat together at the back of the class and talked about whatever it is kids talk about instead of listening to the teacher. The girls in class and what we’d do to their tits if they’d sell us a pen knife at the local store. Bombs, guns, blood spatter patterns. That kind of regular kid shit.
Even then it was about “the man” for Steve. The guns were always pointed at teachers, the bombs were always planted under the school. I didn’t really know the teachers. We never listened to them, after all. And the school was a thing, not a person, and I always got that things can’t hurt you.
Now “the man” was some bank or some government department or something where Steve had got a job. It was part of the plan, he’d explained. The plan to get “the man.”
My mind was zoning back in, and Steve was talking about Kate and Jack. I knew the names. I thought about them lots. Some of the thoughts Steve shouldn’t see. They were going to do something about “the man” at last. His eyes were bright. I hadn’t seen him that alive before. He was telling me how “fucking cool” Kate and Jack were and how “fucking cool” it was when they all hung out and talked about sticking it to “the man.”
He was talking louder and it was becoming increasingly hard to zone him out he was getting so excited. In the end the whole half of my head that was meant to be keeping the other half quiet was kept busy cancelling out the endless Kate this Jack that “the man” the other fucking blah blah cool fucking blah and the other half of my head found its way to my mouth.
“You’re my friend,” it said. “You’re my only friend and I spent my whole life watching your back and you go on and on about this fucking man, this fucking idea you care about more than you care about me and you’re so busy planning to stick it to him you didn’t notice the fucking open sore split down my middle, and along come fucking Kate and fucking Jack blah blahing about the fucking man and you worship the ground they fucking walk on and you’ve tuned me down so I’m not even a hum in your life and you think it’s OK because I don’t care about the fucking man and that makes me less than the man and the whole thing is the man isn’t real, he’s a fucking idea and ideas can’t do shit to you, it’s people that fuck you up, it’s people that stick the knife in and twist it, so no I don’t want to stick it to the man.”
And then my mouth wasn’t moving but my hands were and they had his head between them, and they kept moving. I must have been zoning out again because I didn’t hear the noise on the table and the papers said his skull was smashed in more than thirty places but I didn’t hear a single crack. I felt it though. I felt the ripples through the muscles in my arm, and I felt the endorphins surfing them, and I felt the warmth rise from my feet, the thumping orgasmic warmth that came with every single fucking movement of my hands, with every shudder of the limp leaden weight in my hands, and the smile crawl over my lips and the sense of sheer joy that I didn’t have any enemies but kept my friends so close.
“What’s that?”
“Your friends close,” says a female voice.
“Was I speaking?”
“You were talking about your friends.”
I look up. My mind comes back into focus and I see Kate. She’s smiling. “I’m glad we became friends after Steve died,” she says.
“So am I.”
Love Pig
Simon helped me load my slide reel
Simon wrote my dissertation
Simon carried my heavy portfolio
Simon prized the lid off my jam jar
Simon would do anything for me
he would eat dog shit if I asked him
he let me treat him like dirt
I let him fuck me with a ladle
he stripped me naked in the kitchen
in front of a full-length mirror
love pig was standing outside
watching us through the window
hidden by the begonias
wanking and moaning my name
Simon was sitting behind me
displaying me to the mirror
fondling my softer than yours skin
losing himself in my reflection
coating me in good cream cheese
plucking my pussy hairs
slowly easing the ladle
in the late night kitchen — lights blazing — off his face on cheap drugs
stirring me with the ladle
we were lapping it up
I only let him fuck me once with his willy
now he wants to do it again
he wants to whisk me to the sea-side
for a never-ending dirty weekend
last night he was bawling his eyes out
said he can never believe a word I say
now he’s performing on my doorstep
he’s gift-wrapped and blowing me kisses
he’s galloping round my front garden
pretending he’s a fire-breathing goat
he’s hammering and spicing his meat
he’s slobbering over her next-door’s feet
he’s covering his dick in tin foil
he’s tying red ribbons in his hairy
he’s poking his dick in my letterbox
he’s spunking all over my hall
I want the one who was watching
http://www.fictionaut.com/stories/penny-goring/love-pig
Breakdown
There is never a good time to have a breakdown in communication. Some times are worse than others.
I was naked except for his collar and chain, attached to the chrome leg of the small desk in his hallway. It made for an efficient use of space. My arse was stinging from his blows. My head was heavy. The combination of anticipation, wine and a thorough beating was affecting my ability to think clearly. When he spoke to me I answered in monosyllables. It was all I could manage.
‘Do you like it when I hit you, bitch?’ he asked.
‘Yes’.
‘Yes what?’
‘Yes sir’. It was an effort to speak the words, not just because such words were foreign on my tongue. But because it was an effort to speak at all. I wanted to curl up under a warm duvet. Part of me wanted to go home.
‘Bend over’. And so I did.
My bum must have been pink, red, purple by now. It seemed to encourage him as he smacked me firmly with the flat stinging palm of his hand. Over and over and over again. My head was swimming in thick treacle. I felt as if I was going under.
‘You’re a filthy slut aren’t you?’
‘Yes’.
‘Yes sir’.
‘Yes sir’. This conversation was very limited. It was only the second time we had ever met.
As he continued to hit and scratch and pull my hair something happened. I was suddenly transported from that ground floor flat, into an upstairs bedroom, a long way away, and some years ago. Someone was hitting me, pulling my hair. Calling me ‘bitch’. I was screaming. Was I screaming now? I couldn’t tell. The two events merged into one, as my brain became heavier and heavier, the blows became harder and more frequent. I couldn’t take it anymore.
‘You’re hurting me’, I cried, stating the obvious.
‘I know’, he said, and carried on. By now my cries were turning into sobs and I was wriggling away from his hand.
‘I…’
‘What?’ he asked, irritable. He didn’t want his stroke to be interrupted.
‘Stop’, I think I said. But that can mean ‘don’t stop’ can’t it? Because we were a long way down the rabbit hole now, and everything was upside down and back to front.
As my crying became more pronounced, more miserable, my body less compliant, the panic in my eyes more real, he finally slowed then stopped hitting me.
‘Let me go’ I may have managed. He undid the chain and removed the collar, freeing me to go into the living room, throwing on my clothes before sitting down on a sofa, facing him across the room.
‘I had a violent partner’ I said, ‘it was bringing back memories’.
‘Oh’ he replied. What else could he say?
We drank wine and in stilted voices began to share our painful pasts. He had had a stepdad who had beaten him, apparently, and a mum who had sat by and let it happen.
I’d been stalked, had my house broken into, been assaulted by my ex-boyfriend, in that uncanny mirror of what had been happening, what he’d been doing to me, just a few minutes before.
Nobody moved off their separate seat. Nobody suggested we stopped for the night and had a cuddle. Nobody said ‘I know how you feel’ or ‘isn’t life strange?’ We may have acknowledged silently, that there was some connection between the real violence in our pasts, and this, less malevolent, role-play version. Less malevolent but more confused. At least I’d known what he had meant when he’d broken down my door that time, and beaten me to shit. At least his intentions had been crystal clear.
When we went to bed it started again. He fucked my arse then hit it again, and again, and again, till I cried ‘red’ and said, ‘you bastard’. I put on my red t-shirt, I became a human safeword. I lay awake in the dark while he slept peacefully beside me.
The next morning we dozed and fucked and had breakfast as if we were a ‘normal’ couple, not two strangers too scared to look into each other’s eyes for fear of what we might see.
When he dropped me off at the station he gave me a hug, smiled brightly, then said:
‘We must do this again sometime’.
And, like the sad, lost fools that we were, we did.
Things Base and Vile
Passing out is like blinking. You’re doing one thing; your eyes close. Then when you open them again less than a second later, everything’s different. It happened once when I was little. I fell from a tree. Landed right on my head. The last thing I remembered was sitting in the branch—but when I opened my eyes, people were looming over me. Mom was crying, and a man in a black uniform was telling me I’d fallen.
The same thing has happened again. I think. Maybe not the same thing, but a similar thing. All I can remember is being depressed, wanting to distract myself at the bar with drink and drugs, and I met them. Such a cool couple—he was good-looking and charming, she was pretty and sweet. And both of them were interested in me, and both of them invited me back to do some lines and stay the night. Of course I said yes.
The last thing I remember is getting into the back seat with her. Then came the blink. And now my hands and legs won’t move, and I don’t know where I am. All I know is that every few seconds, pain drums against the back of my head. It’s the thick kind, the kind that rattles my stomach, and it’s so bad that I can’t even look around for a few minutes.
But when I finally can, I wish I hadn’t.
There are two pieces of furniture—the chair I’m in, and the big clawfoot tub behind me. I can’t see into it, but the rust color staining the edge tells me I don’t want to. It’s what’s on the cabinets that starts my shaking, though. Pliers, hammers, drills, nails, needles, threads, ropes, wires, a tarp laid out beneath my seat, oh, God, what’s happening? And then the only door in the room explodes open and I buck in place because I can’t really jump, and I recognize the couple from before. Their names, what were their names? Susan and— Eric? Aaron?
He lopes into the room, eyes like ice landing right on me, and his lips peel back from teeth that seemed beautiful at the bar. “Oh good, kitten, look, it’s up. Good morning, sunshine.”
I can barely understand him over the sound of my heart.
My vision finally focuses enough that I can look down at my hands—my entire body freezes when I see the cord and duct tape, and things are starting to make sense. Aaron chuckles like he’s watching a funny movie, and his wife creeps from behind him to lean back against the counter. She won’t look at me. Not even when I think to ask, “What’s going on?” She just looks at him, and he grins.
“This is the start of your last…oh, five or so hours of life. It’s been awhile, so I’d like to make it last.” That awful grin gets wider, his eyebrows lift, and he turns toward the woman. He murmurs something and kisses her, and she smiles and stops curling her black waves around her fingers, and neither of them pay any attention to the echoing heartbeat or the whispered prayers or the sound of duct tape failing to give.
I once saw my dog kill a rabbit. She took the bunny in her jaws and snapped its neck, and the whole time the rabbit screamed and kicked and tried even though it surely knew it was a lost cause.
I can’t help but understand it, now.
“You’ve got to let me go, please, please you have to. You can’t ki-” But that’s all I can manage before I choke on the words and tears fill my eyes, and the man—he turns back to me and laughs.
“Oh, I’ve got to let you go? And I can’t kill you? Now who says I can’t?”
My brain must be rattling in my skull, the way I shake. “The law! God! Please, please, I’m a person just like you.” His smile shows me every tooth in his mouth and his eyes narrow with it so I look to the woman, who stares somewhere beyond me. “Please. My name is Nicole, I’m only twenty-six, I used to want to be an actress but now I just want to survive, please don’t kill me. It’s almost Christmas, please, please don’t kill me.”
The woman’s soft jaw clenches and she slides her hand up the man’s arm, leaning against him.
“I know it’s nearly Christmas.” Her voice is faint, quiet, but firm. “That’s why you’re here.”
Grinning all the wider, the man croons, “You spoil me,” and turns to kiss her eyebrow. Then her mouth curves up, pretty white teeth showing and eyes curling, and she hugs him.
“I love you, Richard.”
“We’re still going to have to figure out what to do with it when we’re done,” he says, almost to himself. “The ground’s bound to be hard.”
I watch and fit the name to him, memorizing, because then maybe if something happens—if I can get out of this—maybe I’ll remember. He kisses her head and steps back with a smile, glancing over to me while my heart pounds in my ears.
“My God, it’s been too long.” Richard sighs in an almost dreamy way, smirking when I give my wrists a few more jerks. Head clouded like I’m in a dream, I gasp, “Please,” again.
He snorts. “This is your own fault—going home with strangers who promise you drugs. I mean, really. You’re the single easiest mark I’ve had since I stopped going after whores. You’ve made your bed, now lie in it.”
My stomach churns and I very nearly vomit, but I overcome the urge because I get the feeling it’d make things worse for me. He’s done this before, oh my God, they’ve both done this before.“Why do you do this?”
“Art’s sake, mostly.” He doesn’t even look at me as he strolls to the counter. “But this part is quality time for Delilah and myself.” When he turns around, he’s got the pliers in his hand, and I don’t know what he wants to do with them until he takes a few long steps to my side and grabs my hair with his gloved hand. Shrieking, I duck my head and twist, and the man gives a mutter of amused irritation and smashes the back of my skull into the seat. All the pain comes rushing back but I keep fighting because I can barely feel it, because I don’t want those things anywhere near my face.
So I act on instinct.
“Kitten,” he sighs, “would you come here and hel- fuck me!”
My mouth is full of copper-tasting blood and his skin parts against my teeth until something slams once, then twice, into the back of my skull, and a hand comes and opens my jaw, and I have to let go. Richard or Aaron or whatever the fuck his name is, he moves away looking like he’s just stepped in dog shit.
“You little cunt.” He starts to make a move towards me, but then the woman is between us. And this meek, quiet, pretty lady, her black eyes are burning and her face is lined with a kind of anger I’ve never seen in a human being in my whole life, and she swings her right arm, and I don’t realize she’s holding a hammer until it smashes into my mouth and my world explodes.
“You bitch! You little bitch, don’t you dare touch him!”
One, two, three, four, times, and I can only cry out once or twice at the jarring sensation of my teeth snapping, splinters of them flying back into my throat. I choke and sputter and sob and my mouth falls open and hot blood pours out and I can feel my own teeth fall into my lap, and over the loud sound of what’s more noise than music, I can hear her sharp, angry breaths stop. Through my tears I can see he’s grabbed her and kissed her, this hard, passionate romance-movie kiss like what I used to dream about.
“That thing had better not have any diseases.” He turns to the sink. While water runs, I look at the woman—Delilah, he called her, Delilah, Delilah. “How can you let him do this?” The words don’t sound right because half my face is probably already swelling and what few teeth left are snapped in half.
But she understands just the same and shakes her head. “It’s his choice. You little— you bit him,” she says, looking paler than she already is. Her nostrils flare and she snaps up the abandoned pliers, coming at me—when I try to lean away, she grabs my jaw and squeezes it, and then the pliers clamp down over my septum.
I can’t even move before it snaps—it’s the loudest, ugliest sound I’ve ever heard, and the worst pain I’ve ever felt. It’s the kind that sweeps up to my head and then down to my stomach in a great white explosion that shakes my ears and I can feel blood pour down my face while I choke on sobs and the remnants of teeth.
“Oh pussycat.” Now he’s got a bandage on his arm. “I’d ought to let them hurt me more often. Look at you.”
He grins and leans down to kiss her throat, and she takes a little breath and trembles even after he turns to face me.
“You’ve got spunk. I appreciate that. But I don’t appreciate the fact that you drew blood—you’re not ill, are you?” He waves the bandaged arm in front of my face. I shake my head. “Good. I’ll warn you, though, if you’re lying, the truth will come out. And you’ll regret it.”
“They’ll throw you in jail,” I say, but I’m even less intelligible than before. “They’ll find you and kill you.”
He only laughs and lifts his eyebrows. “Oh? And who loves some crack-addled bitch enough to report her missing, go to the police? Really, who do you have? I know your type.” The man shakes his head and turns to pick up a drill, squeezing the button for a second before placing it down again and picking up a dremel, instead.
“You’ve got three, maybe four friends, all of them on the same drugs you are. Things like you disappear often enough and then resurface without a word, and they’ll be too fucked up to acknowledge that you’re gone, and won’t think anything of your disappearance until at least six months from now—if ever.” He smiles—bares his teeth—and switches the tool on, driving the bit into the side of my knee. I shriek and sob and gag, my leg twitching and the motions only making it worse.
Jesus, Jesus, please, oh, God, can’t someone help me? Why me? I don’t deserve this—I’m into shit that I shouldn’t be, but I’ve never hurt anybody! Jesus, God, it isn’t fair.
It’s when he breaks a finger that I finally can’t feel anything.
My ears fill with static. My name is Nicole Biddle, Nicole Biddle, Nicole Biddle, Nicole Biddle, Nicole Biddle, Nicole Biddle, Nicole Biddle, I don’t deserve this, my name is Nicole Biddle, I don’t deserve this, I’m only twenty-six, I’m only twenty-six and I wanted to be an actress, but the only roles I could get were roles in porn, and I did some movies and I’m not proud of it but I needed money, when I was ten my dog got hit by a car and I cried for hours and my father buried her and my mother held me, they always loved me, but then they heard about the movies and suddenly they didn’t anymore, and I don’t have anybody, but I have me, and my name is Nicole Biddle.
“God, kitten, look at that! You certainly are improving in your drawing.”
“It’s only because of you.”
“Nonsense. I wouldn’t be able to do anything if I didn’t have such talent to start with. Why don’t you take a break and take a few photos for me?”
Behind my lids there’s the white flash of a camera and then the man, the black-haired devil, he comes to me and takes my eyelids and my whole face is covered in blood, the same that pours out of the sides of my knees and from under my fingernails and what pools in my broken hands and ribs, and he grabs a broken bottle and I scream when he jams it into me because oh God it hurts, it’s the first pain I’ve felt since my finger—then he grins and grabs the girl and fucks her in front of me like I’m not even there, because I’m not, and I don’t want to see it and she’s embarrassed about it but it’s like he can’t help himself, and she doesn’t seem to mind it, really, just a quick thing against the counter and then he kisses her and tells her how much he loves her.
And what scares me is that it sounds like he more than means it.
Then blink, blink, blink, I keep passing out even though my eyelids are gone which is terrifying and each time I wake up there’s more wrong with me, deep cuts and parts of my skin and— and now I do vomit a little, and it’s mostly blood and teeth and stomach acid and the man laughs and works on what I think is a painting but I can’t really see things right anymore and my eyes sting and then finally, finally I hear him say to the woman, “Why don’t we finish up here, and you and I can move to a room a little more…appropriate for the mood, hm?”
I can’t hear her response, but she must agree, because he comes over to me and leans down, grinning, and places leather-gloved hands around my throat and tells me “Thanks, it was fun,” and presses down on my windpipe, and my name is Nicole Biddle. Biddle Biddle Biddle Biddle. Breathing was already hard and now it’s impossible, and my body goes warm and then cold and I can’t feel a thing, Nicole Nicole Nicole Nicole, and I’m
Don’t Be It, Dream It
I’ve had my share of straight guys. Maybe I’ve had my fill.
I bagged the majority during my college years, that magical time when sexual identity is as addled and messy as a frat boy after his third keg stand. One straight drunk buddy made out with me at a party then invited me to his bedroom to trade blowjobs. Another got so horny looking at straight porn he whacked me off and let me return the favor. And I’ve had others since then. Dalliances in secluded park paths and in the backrooms of adult bookstores, those playgrounds of the minivan-and-wedding-band set. Hookups with masc, discreet Internet-personals advertisers who need to be fucked quick before the gf gets home.
All of them “straight,” though in varying degrees of believability. My penchant for straight guys has come through most strongly in my writing, and I’m aware of the inherent irony in an oeuvre of gay porn about straight guys. I’ve joked that my characters think they’re straight but are actually bisexual; these days I use the term “straight-ish” to describe them. It’s something of a cop out but it serves my purposes. I’m certainly interested in the intersection of sexual identity and behavior, but I prefer to leave those conversations to the queer theorists (who need something to talk about).
My fascination lies in the fantasy of the straight guy, that persistent and near-ubiquitous gay male fetish for guys who prefer pussy but will reach for other forms of relief in a pinch. Internet porn teems with these representations, site after site of guys who only do it cause they’re horny, or tricked, or need the money.
One particular video that was making the Internet rounds a few years back had a straight-identified performer doggy-style fucking a guy whilst reading a pussy mag he’d draped over the bottom’s back. This crossed a line for many and seemed to distill the love/hate boner/shame relationship many gay men have with “straight guys.”
I thought it was hot, maybe because I make a strong distinction between representation and reality. Trading blowjobs with that guy in college was fun – having him alienate me as he fell in love with a mutual female friend was not fun. I got such a crush on one of my best straight buddies that I nearly ruined the friendship with my hopeless pining.
It’s true that there’s an element of self defeat and self hatred when it comes to fetishizing straight guys. But most of our sexual fantasies tend toward the unattainable – otherwise it’s unlikely they’d be fantasies. So it’s okay to jack off while imagining blowing your hetero married boss under his desk, but it’s not an aspiration worth losing your job for. To insist upon the fantasy is at best pathetic, at worst a tragedy. It’s not much of a waking life when you’re hung up on a dream.
So yeah, I’ll always turn my head for a little butch swagger. A football jersey, a gold chain, a splash of Drakkar Noir. But when it gets down to getting down I’d rather have the dude who’s got a spring in his step and a twinkle in his eye. He’s more likely to be aware of what he’s doing, and do it better, and do it with me again.
Waiting – By Roland Barthes
I am waiting for an arrival, a return, a promised sign. This can be futile, or immensely pathetic; in Erwartung (Waiting), a woman waits for her lover, at night, in the forest; I am waiting for no more than a telephone call, but the anxiety is the same. Everything is solemn; I have no sense of proportions.
There is a scenography of waiting: I organize it, manipulate it, cut out a portion of time in which I shall mime the loss of the loved object and provoke all the effects of a minor mourning. This is then acted out as a play.
The setting represents the interior of a cafe’; we have a rendezvous, I am waiting. In the Prologue, the sole actor of the play (and with reason), I discern and indicate the other’s delay; this delay is as yet only a mathematical, computable entity (I look at my watch several times); the Prologue ends with a brainstorm: I decide to “take it badly,” I release the anxiety of waiting. Act I now begins; it is occupied by suppositions: was there a misunderstanding as to the time, the place? I try to recall the moment when the rendezvous was made, the details which were supplied. What is to be done (anxiety of behavior)? Try another cafe’? Telephone? But if the other comes during these absences? Not seeing me, the other might leave, etc. Act II is the act of anger; I address violent reproaches to the absent one: “All the same, he (she) could have . . . ” “He (she) knows perfectly well . . . ” Oh, if she (he) could be here, so that I could reproach her (him) for not being here! In Act III, I attain to (I obtain?) anxiety in the pure state: the anxiety of abandonment; I have just shifted in a second from absence to death; the other is as if dead: explosion of grief: I am internally livid. That is the play; it can be shortened by the other’s arrival; if the other arrives in Act I, the greeting is calm; if the other arrives in Act II, there is a “scene”; if in Act II, there is recognition, the action of grace: I breathe deeply, like Pelleas emerging from the underground chambers and rediscovering life, the odor of roses.
(The anxiety of waiting is not continuously violent; it has its matte moments; I am waiting, and everything around my waiting is stricken with unreality: in this cafe’, I look at the others who come in, chat, joke, read calmly: they are not waiting.)
Waiting is enchantment: I have received orders not to move. Waiting for a telephone call is thereby woven out of tiny unavowable interdictions to infinity: I forbid myself to leave the room, to go to the toilet, even to telephone (to keep the line from being busy); I suffer torments if someone else telephones me (for the same reason); I madden myself by the thought that at a certain (imminent) hour I shall have to leave, thereby running the risk of missing the healing call, the return of the Mother. All these diversions which solicit me are so many wasted moments for waiting, so many impurities of anxiety. For the anxiety of waiting, in its pure state, requires that I be sitting in a chair within reach of the telephone, without doing anything.
The being I am waiting for is not real. Like the mother’s breast for the infant, “I create and re-create it over and over, starting from my capacity to love, starting from my need for it”: the other comes here where I am waiting, here where I have already created him/her. And if the other does not come, I hallucinate the other: waiting is a delirium.
The telephone again: each time it rings, I snatch up the receiver, I think it will be the loved being who is calling me (since that being should call me); a little more effort and I “recognize” the other’s voice, I engage in the dialogue, to the point where I lash out furiously against the importunate outsider who wakens me from my delirium. In the cafe’, anyone who comes in, bearing the faintest resemblance, is thereupon, in a first impulse, recognized.
And, long after the amorous relation is allayed, I keep the habit of hallucinating the being I have loved: sometimes I am still in anxiety over a telephone call that is late, and no matter who is on the line, I imagine I recognize the voice I once loved: I am an amputee who still feels pain in his missing leg.
“Am I in love? — Yes, since I’m waiting.” The other never waits. Sometimes I want to play the part of the one who doesn’t wait; I try to busy myself elsewhere, to arrive late; but I always lose at this game: whatever I do, I find myself there, with nothing to do, punctual, even ahead of time. The lover’s fatal identity is precisely: I am the one who waits.
(In transference, one always waits–at the doctor’s, the professor’s, the analyst’s. Further, if I am waiting at a bank window, an airport ticket counter, I immediately establish an aggressive link with the teller, the stewardess, whose indifference unmasks and irritates my subjection; so that one might say that wherever there is waiting there is transference: I depend on a presence which is shared and requires time to be bestowed–as if it were a question of lowering my desire, lessening my need. To make some wait: the constant prerogative of all power, “age-old pastime of humanity.”)
A mandarin fell in love with a courtesan. “I shall be yours,” she told him, “when you have spend a hundred nights waiting for me, sitting on a stool, in my garden, beneath my windows.” But on the ninety-ninth night, the mandarin stood up, put his stool under his arm, and went away.
by Roland Barthes
http://notearama.blogspot.com/2010/10/notes-on-lovers-discourse.html
The Opposite of Marriage
“All paraphilias are ultimately about death.” It was Belmondo who said that, while we were all sitting around getting high and talking about porn and kink.
Belmondo was this underground L.A. DJ. He became friendly with Johnny, my boyfriend, because they were both obsessed with Jean-Luc Godard, who, in my opinion, made movies that were really boring. But I liked the actress is them, Anna Karina, who was his wife. I never saw a more charming woman, ever, and for a while I was obsessed with her and wanted to be just like her, but in the end I went back to Marilyn Monroe, which is more typical but classic.
I won’t lie to you, I’m pretty typical, including how I became a porn actress. I got my BFA in acting and moved to L. A. with a friend who had been in the same program as me. We got an apartment together and started going on auditions, and when she came back from them she’d laugh and tell me about how she flirted with the casting director, and it always worked (unless the casting director was a woman, ha ha). She’d give me tips like wearing a padded bra, but I was too dumb to listen. I also wouldn’t blow a director to be in a commercial or fuck a married guy with kids to be in his shitty movie. I was a prude, basically. So Alison’s career took off while I was stuck in B horror movies playing, ironically, the slut who gets killed right after the black guy and the gay guy. By the time she was in her mid-20s she was playing opposite hot male comedians in their 40s, 50s or even 60s, as the cute “new girl” in the romcom. Then she got a lead role in that HBO supernatural series (which is practically porn anyway) and the rest is celebrity tabloid history.
I didn’t even get to star in a movie until I was 28, and it was more of the same straight-to-video garbage, although I acted my heart out, pretending I was Elizabeth Taylor in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? or Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. As an acting student who didn’t think she was very good my dream was that once I became a movie or TV star I’d have my pick of the great roles and I would play Blanche DuBois and maybe, maybe, Martha, one day, in vanity productions. Even though I really wanted to play Stanley Kowalski. Brando was my idol and imaginary boyfriend rolled into one.
When I was starring in that horror movie – it’s considered a cult classic now or camp classic or something- the girl who played my teenage daughter, though we were more like sisters in age, told me how she’d been making good money doing porn.
She invited me to visit a shoot to decide whether it was the sort of thing I could do. I was kind of freaked out but finally I went and I was surprised that it didn’t bother me at all. It was just people having sex. The idea of being one of them, though, made me really nervous, more nervous than acting. The first time I had to go on a shoot that I was going to be part of, I threw up before I left the apartment and then again before my first scene. I made myself go through with it – I’m not sure why, it wasn’t just for the money. I had to push myself for some reason.
I met Johnny, a film student, when we were at a club and he asked me to dance. He gave me the whole line about how I was the most beautiful, most “charismatic” woman he’d ever seen and he was going to make me a movie star. I fell for it like a jerk, or not really, I just fell for him. When I told him I was a porn actress he wasn’t judgemental and he said he’d figured as much, he’d met a lot of porn actors and directors at the club, but he’d never wanted a porn actress for a girlfriend until he met me. He said there was something about me that was different from them but also different from other women. I told him it was because I was a Mormon, and that made him laugh.
*
Madame Sosostris went to the same parties as me. She wouldn’t give me a reading, she wouldn’t say why, but we became friendly anyway. She told me that she thought I had natural psychic qualities and that I could probably become a good medium with the proper training. She asked me if I often felt like I was psychically overwhelmed by other people. I laughed and said, “Only by you, Madame,” but really I kept thinking about what she said and applied it to my relationship with Johnny. It was like we didn’t have separate identities anymore.
The porn I was doing started to get weirder and weirder. I justified it by telling myself I was getting a bit old for the more mainstream stuff, and you could get more money for being willing to do extreme stuff. But really it was also like I was spiritually searching, like how I was getting more and more interested in books on the occult, which I read under Madame’s guidance. I believed there was something beyond, beyond, beyond what everyone knew, if we knew how to get there. I even found myself believing in aliens. I knew they were out there, and sometimes I’d just sit on our couch, trying to send my thoughts out to them and ask them to find me, to show themselves to me, and I promised I wouldn’t be afraid of them and I would welcome them.
*
Belmondo told me, “You have a problem with boundaries. You don’t have any.” He said he knew what that was like but that he’d had to learn to create them. Belmondo knew a lot about this kind of thing, because when he was younger he had worked on and off as a prostitute for an agency and he had specialized in catering to fetishists.
He said that practising BDSM was good for people like us because you could use it to find out what your real limits were, and set them. I said, “But a great actress can’t have any boundaries! She has to be receptive to the universe!” and then I laughed and laughed and laughed because I was drunk at the time and because I had used the term “great actress” about myself. But really I laughed because it was true. I may have been acting in weird underground fetish pornos that nobody except a few perverts saw but I still thought of myself as practising my art within them, maybe more than I could have done in any mainstream movie or even in most art movies. Not because I was acting but because I was using them to find out things about myself, and that’s what acting had been about for me. And sometimes I did think of the person I was pretending to be in front of the screen as somebody very different from me, as somebody who took possession of me.
*
I found myself saying, “Why don’t we make a snuff movie?”
It was after Belmondo had said that thing about death and paraphilias. We started talking about snuff movies. I have no idea who brought it up. Maybe it was the devil, who could have been there for all I knew. Everybody knows real snuff movies don’t exist. But the thing about them is, since the idea exists, so could they. All you’d have to do is make one.
Everybody laughed. Somebody said, “Are you volunteering to be the star?” I said, “Sure, why not?” and everybody laughed again. Maybe I was just enjoying being outrageous, or maybe I was upset because they weren’t taking what I was saying seriously, so I kept going. I said, “Who’s going to stop me? We’re all going to die.” Darrin said, “We know that, honey. I’m poz, remember.”
I said, “We’re all going to die, so why not control it? What we’re all afraid of is that our death is going to be meaningless. That no one will care. We want to be remembered. Why do you think everybody wants to be a celebrity? But to be remembered, you have to do something memorable.”
Belmondo asked me: “So you find the idea of your own death a turn-on, honey?”
I said, “No, but I want you to be turned on by it.”
Everybody laughed some more, but it was more nervous.
I turned to Johnny and said, “I want you to make a snuff movie with me.”
Belmondo was leaning back against the arm of the couch, smoking. He said, “It would be the ultimate romantic gesture.”
“Killing my girlfriend?” Johnny said.
“No. Fulfilling her request to control her death.”
“Hey,” Johnny said. “I don’t find the idea of a woman dying a turn-on. Not even my girlfriend.”
“All paraphilias are ultimately about death,” Belmondo repeated.
“Bullshit,” Johnny said.
“When the mind is freed of all of its socially imposed constraints, that’s the place it goes.” Belmondo sounded like he knew what he was talking about.“Once you start thinking about what really turns you on, without censoring yourself, you’ll eventually – quickly – end up with the idea of death.
“We like to think that sex is friendly fun and games. Even if we’re playing at something not-so-fun, like humiliation and pain. Maybe because it’s playing, it even helps us to deal with those out-of-control emotions that could destroy us or hurt someone else. But death isn’t playing anymore. And that’s why it’s a turn-on,” he concluded. He might have made that speech before. It seemed rehearsed, almost.
When Johnny and I walked home that night, I put my arm through his and said, “Will you do it?” I knew that I sounded almost whiny, and small, though I felt big and strong. “It’s important to me.”
He just said, “I always knew you’d be the death of me.”
*
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