PRECISION

I’m making it something more than it is. It’s a quick escape, something you can justify when you’re lonely, scared, bored—when they’re doing it too. I come back to the house, you’re sitting on the stairs—you’ve been drinking all afternoon and you’re poisoned. Make-up gone since cried or fucked away, I don’t want to even know what you’ve been doing with your girlfriends. Talking to you is toxic, from the steel stink of the sweat on your shoulders to your breath that makes me cringe and nauseous. My little waste, my little sinkhole of time and effort with no return except the diminished value of your fuck when you get too drunk.

The trust that finances and facilitates calling you anything other than the cunt you are at times dissipates with the absorption of the chemical I know well but can handle better. The precision of my lusts, of my motivations, is never fractured or imperfect. It’s focused and real. It’s bitter and irate but it pleasures me. It’s worth it.

My knuckles once showed straight through the skin when I stopped punching against a man’s face. It was another example of precision—bold and perfect, cutting and killing with as much force as a muscle can manage before it blisters, or the cerebral manifold beckons it to stop. That’s where the salty guilt taste pools on the lip and drips down into the battered face and onlookers be damned, you can justify what you’ve done. It’s an art. It’s beautiful.
I can’t think of holding you underwater, as much as I think of drowning when I come inside, have to use my fucking foot to stomp down the cans that rattle from top to bottom in the bag. You say you’re not beautiful. You tell me they didn’t thank you for cooking, for supplying. And my words are of no consequence. You tell me fucking around a while ago netted you a whore’s disease and you wonder if I think of you in similar terms. Terminology, language—what I want to say I can’t.

I’ve never been closer to leaving. Losses split like a lip and fuck, if it isn’t sweet to taste the surprise when I draw my fist and face back. Another sloppy fuck and I realize reward is not worth the risk or the treason or the insufferable reiterations of your teenage wounds. Do you think it’s the scar that shows on your thigh when you hike up the skirt? Do you think it’s the tiny beer-paunch barely discernible from a bunching of fabric? Starve yourself again, let the cigarettes turn your fingers and teeth raw yellow as they beg for sustenance. Concerns of your weight, your figure, you used to be a goddamned queen.

You see a woman, any one of these cunts, and you think aloud you have the tighter pussy, that you suck the better cock. You say men don’t know what to do with you. I do, others did better—the ones that had you and left you bruised and fucked and wrecked on some the idea they may have been right to do so. Justified. How’d you learn to do it so well? Did it always fit? You can’t remember, can’t recall details. Everything is fogged, ill, confused and advisable by the tendency of a moment to flutter away. Remember this, these moments—the ones where it hurts again, when you’re twisted up and rotting inside from the treachery of friends, of kisses to your neck when you sleep.

Plugging away, your tongue drowsing over my cock and I pull away. I’m failing you. Filling your mouth, the tip grating your throat until you choke. I’m mixing too much. Too many scenes. Your past comes into the room and lines between me, men’s hands stroking their cocks until hard and their ruthless big-lipped speech, the gorilla language of faggots base enough they are only ever consumed by the prospect of a fuck. The closest they’ll get to you, penetrating the Brazilian-waxed cunt and blowing coked up, boozy loads on your rashy flesh. Why do I care so much about something I can’t change?

Had I been there, seen the psycho throw your well-framed bones through a wall, down the stairs, put his shoe to your throat and hold a gun to your temple. What I would’ve done, what I’ve done before. Ashley’s rape left her cunt battered, mutilated—of no use to anyone. Pretty girl, small, the dents in her flesh that remained brown and bleeding from the deep trauma of those two pairs of hands running all over her, into her, through her. I knew them and their spectacular cravings, their wants and grisly willingness to take part. But this was mine, she was part of this assembly I’d created, lured. I took the butt of a borrowed 9mm and I collapsed one’s nose, his forehead. Put the gun down this throat like a cock, made him suck the barrel. I pulled it out, taking teeth and a strip of his inner cheek with it. I shot the other in the knee, stuck things in the wound. My favorite scream came from my index, because I could feel through the glove all the nasty veins coiling in defense from the touch. Now you have to live with something that can never be repealed, my decision to make it last forever.

And Ashley, I didn’t do it for you. I did it for myself. Precise, vulgar, brutal examples that can’t even match what I’ve seen done to others. In newspapers, books, in my online meanderings. Bland, gentle, collegiate championing of death metal, black metal, forms that fail within their mold. Nazi imagery as if it’s still startling to see a Jewish body grown emaciated and scummed by the empowered, bold excess. Tell me you like to see women cry, that you like to comb through the photos. You’re tempered by the ideologies, the tastes, the argument that you’re wrong. You’re not, but even so, you keep it hidden. Because you’ve seen what it does to others. What it made them do. And I won’t even mention the names, because you know them so well—culled from the clippings and the garbage and the signs outside the courthouse for the death penalty’s reinstatement in a small Midwestern town.

You’re better than that. More precise.

You can make it last. You choose to say some things to no one, instead of sharing your ideas abroad…finding a vehicle, a voice. You’re lame, scared, you’ve been rejected before when you’ve tried. Can you defeat desires, survive lust, through the limber guitar strokes of some tin-handed static on the radio? If so, I’m envious. Nothing has ever been good enough. Never has been. It falls short once it falls past the teeth. I’d rather see that mouth contorted and fucked, wailing, walls and sick segments of crushing, pulverizing, pure noise. I can pull pain from this, hope I leave the edges at an inviting enough angle that you pull and it’s yours to share. Yours alone. You deserve it. It’s going to hurt and I’m glad.

Fiction. The best I can do, can give. Is it or isn’t it? I can’t even give it a name, let alone hold it, see it growing into a victim or a monster without a space between. She didn’t tell me she was late and thankfully it never came to be. Words. What they are, when broken down—they’ve never met the hands meet around a throat. They’ve never challenged a goddamn thing. I put them down only to watch them fail, and derive accomplishment from the splatter of the ink, the edge of the pen, but really they’re meaningless, trivial, entertainment turned commerce. There’s no price or guarantee at completion of the narrative they’ll ever wound or maim but they’re done and that’s the matter at hand. Completion. Precise. They are what they’ll be. Erected, posted, rode into town in the back of a truck like the components of a temporary fairground at the dead strip mall. Something to rally a crowd with its dazzling light or its sick-sweet smell.

Taste yourself on my cock. Lick the cum off the end. Swallow, a predicate. Turn yourself into a collision, the catastrophe. Words. Just words.

BAIT

It’s never enough. It’ll never be perfect. Eyes scream like diamonds through tears worked up by the terror of an event more real than anything. The submission of a body to another. One taking, never giving. One explosive climax after another which chips at something deeper—moistens the slit, begs the wall leaving scratches and pulls in the tapestry that hangs near the head of the bed. This is everything for a moment. You’re scratching, gasping, struggling, hurting, dreaming what it all means and the reality is what you’re tearing against when you cum. This hand-to-mouth, cock-to-cunt, heart-to-heart is trivial—the challenge of a board game, no stakes, no victory circle. Just a broken body on the bathroom floor, blood streaks on your thighs. I’m getting mine. I’m taking.

It’s never enough.

I could barely make it out, the familiar shapes of one and the mysteriously vain contortions of the other. She says to the camera her name is Tryna and she’s ready. The man behind her, ominous, a grown version of a shape like mine, comes into frame. She undoes his belt, a huge buckle gold and gleaming that rattles as they fishes the cock from his pants. She smiles, a very real grin—wide white teeth showing, her skin toasted brown around lips painted up a deep shade of red. He gets hard when she slides her fingers over the head of his cock, kisses the tip. She’s bait, prey. She takes the cock in her mouth, deep, and you can’t see his face. His muscles tense as he pushes her head down, as she gains leverage shifting higher up on her knees. She pulls back and he steps forward, her eyes wet and her face mangled. Halfway to a decent breath she’s desperate for he lunges back in and she’s choking now. The camera gets close, close enough to see what she’s thinking. How it got to this, what she’s done, I don’t want to I don’t want to I don’t want it that far down my throat. She tries to stand and the man pushes down on her shoulders to keep her pinned down. He tears down her low-cut blouse exposing young, perfect, resolute tits. She’s trying to say something through a renewed smile, this time sheepish and unconvincing. He provokes her throat one more time, smacks her when he cums across her face. At the end her mouth is just a hole, something in her given in and up—sick and defeated.

I’m clawing at the screen. I’m trying to save her every time I rewind the tape. There’s no assistance, nothing I can do. But I keep this image for a long time, still even. Idealist, young, she’s just doing it for fun, she’s just doing for a little extra money. She’s not a bad girl. She’s not a pig, she’s not a whore. She is, after, what he’s made her. And I at thirteen will only ever know her as bait. I watched, over and over, how scared she got when she knew it was too late, he was going to get his no matter what. In the empty room, bed in the background, hard linoleum against her well-kept knees, he fucks her throat and I admire his power, his will. He has broken someone, he has created something anew from the pieces. Aside from her name, I can’t see anything but her devouring a cock, tasting it afterward and getting sick in the parking lot, in the back of a cab, in the mirror when she sees the welts she got for her resistance. Did she ever ask ‘please?’ When she’d done it before, to a lover or for a favor, did she tell him not to grab her like that? Not to force her head down? What made you let him? What made you? Whore. Pig. Fuck you for everything. Garbage.

***

Wasting words on this shit again, wasting time. But you want to hear about it, or so you said. I want to hear about you. I already know enough about myself, about this.

I’m invincible and I can’t do anything about it.

I’ve heard things before. I never let things be.

I’m making it all right. Always have. I take. I fuck. I win.

You’re in that precious love, the silly kind. You don’t have to fuck me every night. You worry, you’re stressed, and I love you back when I feel like you need me. You’re seduced by the subtlety of dim bar-lights and you cringe for numerous reasons when they rise for last call. When you were young your mother would drag you out at night, feed you the soaked, glistening skins of broken cherries fished out from a half-dozen Manhattans. You’d sleep on two stools pulled close to one another as men’s eyes lurked over your sleeping body, honed on the tight skin showing from a slip of your shirt from its place tucked at the waist—the tiny waist, as you move in the tawny grasp of a child’s dream. Your mother would have a stranger, someone new to take home, carry you out to the car. If there was ever a father’s embrace I never heard tell of it.

Which is why you hate it when I say you’re drinking too much. Why you hate me trying to stop you from destroying yourself, insinuating I believe you’re just as bad—a drunk, immature, fragile. Fragile like the skeleton that grew stressed from the weight of breasts forming beautifully and bold, welcoming the unwanted attention you’ve gotten all your life from men. Let me. I know a few who’ve seen too much. Seen you prone, seen you fucked up and cut and naked with the radio blaring as you die but it looks like you’re still dancing. I’ve shaken hands that have pulled loose your bra-straps after they unzipped your summer-dress down the side. You’ve been sick of yourself, starved, waiting.

“You know I could tear to shreds,” you’ve told me. “You know I could ruin you.”

You’re the passenger in a machine not fit for travel. Sixteen miles over and you’ve hit the guardrail along the bypass. You’ve cut herself for years, I’ve kissed the fucking crooked scars, I know it was worse than you let on. Trying to get back to that bed of glass in the backseat, scared little girl, cutting yourself worse with every thrashing gesture. I’ve counted the lines only to discover skin ripped anew—the flesh colored bandages that bunch and expose the wound as you move across the room. I pull back from kissing your hips and taste alcohol, peroxide, shame.

My rampant mind captured in a skull with enough stress on its hinge I fear it exploding as we leave. You’re a cheap mess again, starving herself all day only to get this far into the night with a belly full of cheap vodka drinks and bitter amber beer.

“Let me drive,” you say, and I do. In your heels you make the car wretch and you fumble lighting a cigarette. I shift for you, watch the dress ride up your legs. You collapse back in the seat a few times when you take off too fast and I see the seatbelt crossed between your breasts, nipples erect. I see we’ve gotten home, I see we’ve gotten somewhere—you say you love me as I try to destroy you. There is a limit, one you haven’t reached—I’ve climbed back, have been; back, back, back since forever I can remember.

You know I’m worse than I allow, and you can tell when I bite your neck and thrust your throat closed. You’ve been beautiful your whole life, can’t you see that? Your mouth is limber from the drink; from sucking my cock to get me hard enough to fuck you breathless and soaked until nothing else exists. You tell me painful things: dragging some cute boy into the backseat of your car on some old dirt road; some pin-dicked prick who raped your mouth after work at an ice cream parlor; how you can’t remember losing it, who was your first, how you’ve made it this far without a clue. You think you’re free of blame. Some cute, squealing feminist notion makes you believe it was always “them,” never anything you did. And I hesitate to tell you—despite this massive feeling you’re incredible, we can get there somehow—that you’re fucked. A prototype for failure. That you’re capable of nothing on her own.

That you need me.

Let me be the one. Let me be the one to really hurt you, the one you can’t forget. Let me fill you up with potent powder that will ruin your complexion. Let me be the voice that’ll sing you the songs you’re owed—the masculine voice so soothing against the onslaught of the evening. Let me fuck you over and over until you’re worthless. I’ll make you think I’ve gotten no pleasure from your body, your only asset—the shell that hides so much more, what you’re really worth. Let me put a price on it, let me sell it, let me make you some sick-strange arrangement of narrow curves and famished flesh. Let me show you where I’ve been—a guided tour of fall-out, things I did to myself, how I got here. Let me or don’t, nothing can kill me. I’m invincible. Consider it a gift.

You’re not real.

You’ve never been.

You can’t be.

You’ll assume this is all about you. It’s not. It’s me fucked and forgetting.

Wasting words.

***

This is the safest way to love now. Without touching, talking. Just appearance, gesture, imagination. Imagine. So simple. Free of interrogation or responsibility. No declaration of intention or purpose. Allowed, circumstantial, childish. Accepted, so long as it remains a desire or a photograph. No action. Action is universally intolerable. Patience is no longer necessary, silence is considered communication. Lurking, hiding, stalking. The kind of harmless searching that provides little interpretation...it is becoming normal. It's fun. It doesn't ever become real, it doesn't ever feel. It simply remains, as is, there. Available, safe.

Started with the bland exhibitionism. Another one of those cute notions they’re winning, they’re in control…they’ve never had it. Barely legal, shirt pulled down, breasts pressed together, tongue dangling. Takes some darkened shots with a web cam or an old Polaroid. Deletes the ones with her panties off. Invites a friend to do the same. Calls another with a better camera, an eye for shapes and ambience. He shows them how good he can make the both of them look. He tells her what he wants her to do to the other. It wasn't the first time they've flirted with their lazy persona. They joke, touch each other, call each other "whore." Kiss deeply when they have a crowd, become known for their "freedom."

Kept it safe as best they could. Take the bait right from the hand. One blonde and one brunette, they take turns sucking my cock after we drink what she’s got around. I finish in the tight cunt of the blonde, her skin so slight and her body so tapered. The brunette eats the blonde out, and I watch getting hard again, her big ass inviting me. I take her from behind, tape the blonde up to the corner with a necktie against the posts for the bed like the deviant cliché this all is. She is more into it, I see her so wet her thighs glisten in the bedroom’s low light. When the brunette tells me not to go so hard, she’s never been fucked like this, I go harder. Force her head back, pulling at her neck, feeling her cum and scream at once. She kicks at me and I take it. Focused on the blonde, I beat her cunt until I feel my pelvic bones pull against the muscles. I hammer her until her pussy is pulped and twitching without me touching it, and she falls silent before she falls off the bed. They’re safer without the physicality of their intentions. Not able to handle the true, the real, the too-much-please-stop.

They have been photographed bare before but it is the first time they feel in control. It was the first time they got to crop the photo, remove the red eye, taper the edges so the shithole they lived in wasn't seen. The drained flavored Stoli bottles disappear from the end table. Accentuate the focus by glossing over the red on the upper left breast. Change the dimensions so your pierced belly looks slightly elongated, thinner, always some way to be thinner. Lighten the deep blues so they become pale and the skin doesn't look so washed out. Post picture. It begins.
They thank the photographer for his time, trust him to keep the photo of his cock in both their mouths a secret. They wait for replies, responses. Post a bulletin, everyone should see this. Surely a few puritan friends you've had since high school will feel uncomfortable, feel as if they no longer "know you," assuming they ever really did; this small victory is worth the cum you're hoping they waste over you. Those men who bought you drinks that night, their garbled speech and tilted fitted ball caps. The website you referred them to, your profile page, "this is me, my friends. Send me a message." Forgot to tell them your name isn't really Terry, you aren't really twenty-two. No matter, it doesn't ever have to be more, doesn't have to be real. Then there's the boys you've known for years that accepted you. One by one, the occasional dry finger fuck or a last resort suck off. What a soft new light they see you in now. A second pass over your name in their little book as they charmingly fumble through the pages.

Easy.

Always so easy.

Safe.

Always safe.

You can't call them whores, that would be too glorifying, too extreme. Merely fun. Those crazy gals, can you believe them. So easily excusable should the reaction turn venomous, always something to blame it on. A momentary lapse of caution, lazy justifications afforded by a young lifetime of effortless entitlement. We were drunk. It was exploration, it was just...fucking around. Nothing new, never is. To be new you'd have to be closer to the vein, closer to true impulses...closer to reality. Stupid to think flashing your prematurely sagging tits is even remotely close to being spontaneous or exciting. Boring, if anything, not even worth the strength it'd take to leave or at very least, look away.

Link after link and there it is, a beast, a whole new world. One of words and pictures, little girls screaming or pus-dripping hooker cunts. Some college art project, daring to be a little more intense than the usual bullshit but still causing no rush. No lust, no drive. Still based in an established morality, in some kind of beauty. There's a reason for the close-up of her beaten cunt, of her crying eyes...which one is more beautiful? The academics champion these photographs, their story...there's no fucking story, it was lifted from a fetishist quarterly or an old Hustler and mounted on thick black paper to accentuate "the darkness." Photos of poor, uneducated fucks living without heat or running water somewhere in the mountains. How real this is, how human. My, what each pair of those eyes has seen...It'd make you puke if you had the energy.

The body is used up, a series of holes and piss, it has been over for a long time. What is so appealing about the shape, the characteristics that make it ugly/pretty? What's left to take, what's left to make it do? How many ways can you fuck it, hurt it? How many bones are there to bent or broken, how much tissue can be severed? When is it worth more than what it's been through?
What is left?

She talks about her cutting, openly. She posts pictures of the scars, remembers each one like a close relative. There's a story. There's a reason. There's a standpoint and an understanding or some kind of pledge. It is the only thing she has left that is real, that test. How deep she can go and how close she came to one time or another bleeding out. How when she decides to end it she's going to let everyone know first, not so they can stop it, but so they can watch. And maybe they'll feel something too. It won't be pure. It is voyeurism. It is a dog in the window. It is safe.

What do you want out of it?

What do you hope to find? What steps do you skip, which ones make you stumble? Do you lose your drive at the onset or the climax? Do you lose your breath before you speak or after you've told the truth?

Does it still hurt?

It doesn't need to be justified, this safe behavior. That's where the beauty lies. In the silence. There's no absurd reasoning, there's no edge. There's an abundance of images, sounds, videos. How far are you willing to go to search for what could destroy you? What will you do when you find it? Is it enough? Was it enough to hear about it? Did you have to look? What about when you've seen it all? What's left? Did it react when you said something, when you touched it, when you thought about how it'd feel against you? This can be answered. A few clicks this way or that way.
Found him, her, them. What now? Visible distance, sharing only bits and pieces of yourself, the ones you don't mind people seeing because they are the pieces no one can hurt you with. The useless bits that you have to know how to caress or fondle just right. The flesh you preserved; you didn't cut it up, didn't let him burn it. These sensible strangers, these poisoned personalities that fascinate you. These people that are real and their persona true. Their aggression is never passive, their photos and faces never cropped, their impulses never tamed. Their decisions are always conscious, never excused, never regretted. Their internet lives are weekend projects, a retrospective, a tool. They want more because they've never had enough. They're seeking, searching, stationary. No escape; it's unnecessary. There's a comfortable, chaotic corner where they thrive, and you can visit for a fee. The price is whatever you have to offer. The reward is a constant. Pleasure, pain, extremes. Swallow. Appreciate the primal honesty, the urge they share, their triumphs all their own.

This is the safest way to love.

The irony is not lost. There's no tangibility to any of this. Simply a mystery as to its purpose. Words simply placed, adorn a page, one you could navigate towards or away from. Silly and childish, there's got to be a better way. There's always constraints, some kind of limitation. What better way to make it real than make it available for everyone? Slack-jawed friends who now see what you really think, what you really feel, and yes, you accept the judgment and there's no defense. There's no retaliation. No sympathy card. Lies?

It resonates somewhere. There's an audience, one you can't choose, one you can't ignore, one you can't run from when they watch your every move. When from the stage you act as if you're lost and it wasn't really you, wasn't really your words they took to heart...isn't ever you they're there to see. Something you lifted from the stack of books you've numbed through, from a film you saw...from a story you've heard before.

Aware of the trouble you're getting into. Once again, the tool makes it safe. Nothing under the mattress you could be held accountable for, just a nameless, titleless passage that lives out all the fantasies you're too afraid to enact on your own. Driven to the lore but it remains just a myth, you want to see it. Feel the neck break, feel the flesh split, feel the wet cunt twitch in orgasm when it should be dry and aching, hear the moans of pleasure when they should be of fear...maybe you want to feel as if you saved her.

You know what you want and you have the means to get it. You just have to do instead of talk. Write it instead of read it, participate instead of watch. Get to the bottom of it so when the muck and filth becomes the top (as it inevitably does) you can go even deeper than you imagined. Anyone can dream but only some ever burn.
Assume this is experience, why else would one be willing to do it? Perhaps it is fantasy or greed...you can have it all if you're willing to find it, call it your own. Own it. This isn't a xerox'd dorm room expose, no typewritten pages of justification derived from humanistic psychology. No interviews with the acknowledged. Once you've got the notoriety the rest is a perk of celebrity. Far from ever being such a thing.

This is no excuse.

There has never been one.

Only a reason.

There are no particulars, no enraged ramblings. No answers provided. It would be foolish to expect them. No longer coddled. No shelter. From here on there is only a push towards what may sting, what may cut...what could kill. What is real. What is true. What is pure. The closer you get to it, the more unforgiving the surface, the more sweat that pours from your brow as you scratch away at it...the more real, true, pure.

Lust.

What was safe, but will never be again.

***

The pattern of switches (on/off/on) repeats indefinitely as if it were a melody forged from the only chords you know. A last kiss makes the lips part just enough for a handful of words—none you can say aloud in the empty bedroom. The light splayed by the blinds coats the bed in a diffuse glow, like the grin of a handsome foreigner. The fountain outside spits and gasps with the same violence as someone choking.

In the restaurant last night, what was it you said through the sterile chatter? You remember now; the thing about that someone else. He got up to go smoke. When he came inside he was silent and tragic. When you got back to the apartment he fucked you on the tall table in the kitchen—his eyes were bullet-tipped and he didn’t bother removing his blue dress shirt. He didn’t care if you climaxed; his muscles tight, face frozen in an attitude of indifference, as if it were just another task to him—one more thing to weigh on his mind.

“You let him kiss you?” he’d asked, leaving you there on the table as he pulled his pants up. You kept your eyes on the ceiling, the table digging into your fragile spine and his sweat cold on your chest.

“I stopped him, it was short and stupid,” you’d said.

“But it happened!” he’d said. “You let it happen.”

"What do you want from me? I don’t know what you want.”

“I just want you. I want us,” he’d said with the agony of a half-tuned song on the radio.

“Who is us anymore?” you’d asked.

He left and he wasn’t coming back, not until he got into some fight and had to return for peroxide and bandages for his wounds. You’re still waiting, worried now. What’s he doing to keep his mind off those phantom hands clutching you in a dark, loud place? With your heavy, perfect breasts hung over the balcony, you smoke an interminable chain of full-flavor cigarettes under the curtain of dawn. You feel strange eyes, barely opened enough to shed their sleep, staring from across the complex. You can almost hear (even over the clamor of your heart as it strains with worry about what he’s doing or done) the slick pass of a tongue over gritty teeth. You’re used to it.

You heard that sound as the boy from the bar undressed you behind a door marked “Employees Only.” His fingers were quick to undo your bra under the low-cut blouse. You let him touch you amid the resounding applause of an audience beyond the door for a band on stage. Were you aware of anything but the moment? Aware of the mess you were making, all the things you were going to leave broken? You liked the attention, the lights; the way he undid your delicate promises. You kick the table on the balcony bare-footed and the ashtray vaults before it crashes, spilling ash all over. You stare down at one more mess you’ve made—a simple part of everything.

***

She always looked in my eyes when she did it. She'd beg me to tell her when, I'd nod, her gaze fixed as she descended. She was still not used to it, still something new. She'd fumble with the buckle, gently tug the hips of my jeans and smoothly bring them down to my knees. She'd pause, looking up at me once more. Tilting her head a bit as she set in, first grasping me with her fingers and kissing the base as I stiffened. Once aroused, she kiss the tip. Warm. Passing her tongue over the head, I'd feel a hand on my thigh, the fingers tracing circles with the occasional tap. She'd take me into her mouth, her eyes looking up as I glanced between them and the scene ahead. I'd follow the fresh paint strokes on the wall, down and up over and over again. I'd feel saliva drip from the corners of her mouth onto my balls. When she wanted me to look at her she'd tug them, and I responded courteously. I felt the rush begin, that sensation originating in the nerves of my cock now generously in her throat and I'd clench my fists against my sides, prolonging as best I could. When climax became inevitable, I'd take her eyes into my own as I placed a hand on the back of her head. The white corners would turn red and I'd hear the familiar sound of her gagging. She'd try at first to press me away with her palms just above my knees. After a couple of slight pushes she'd settle and pinch the muscles with her colorless nails. I'd see the tears form in the corners and start to drip on to her cheeks. Her pale flesh blushes as I cum hot into her mouth. I'd press harder on her head until I imagined it unbearable...then a little more. Her jaw would tingle and twitch and just barely bite but never hard enough for me to stop before she'd passed the point of being to take all of me. When those eyes closed I knew I'd gotten what I wanted from her, all she could give. I'd slide out quickly and press her forehead away as I fixed myself up. She'd double over for a moment, crawl towards her purse for a tissue. If there was none she'd use her blouse, blotting her eyes and rubbing her tongue with the fabric.

She never said a word.

How can you let me do this to you?

The red in her face would not subside for a while. I'd put on a record or go get some water for her. She'd remain on her knees on the floor, hands clasped, coughing and clearing her throat. She'd contemplate her dreams, her little expectations, recall what made her decide I was to be the first boy she tasted.
Why do you let me do this to you?

So willing. I knew it was her first time. She hadn't an idea, knew what she was to do but not how it was to go. What she must have imagined. Those glossed black and whites, surely derived from some kind of classic romanticism. Now there was a precedent. She'd never forgot how deep, how hard, how hot, and how big. She'd remember that frantic moment where she had to gasp for her air but all the while knew she didn't want to stop. She would've failed. It would've left an impression, lessened my respect. Wouldn't have been dignified.

Pathetic.

So easy to excuse someone rolling over you when you think it's love. When you have no idea the experience is more pure. No expectations, only the satisfaction of accomplishment. Be the first of your friends to taste cum. Leave out the startling details. Never tell anyone how wet it made you, on your knees, being taken for what you were worth.

So little.

She wouldn't let me penetrate her, not for months after. Without a kiss I'd dig my way into her panties, run my middle finger up and down the lips until it seemed permitting. I'd press her clit, felt it wriggle as her body tensed. Pinching, flicking, tickling...I'd try to insert but it was too tight. She'd beg me "no" and I'd listen. I'd continue with the clit until she'd orgasm, which disgusted me. That look of wonder, this fresh feeling, that pleasure she'd never had before. To continue with this, what I ultimately wanted. Sharing in these first moments of a long sexual existence after, knowing every late night rendezvous or quick suck off was leaving an impression. Leaving a mark. For that moment I was the focus, usually so resigned to the side or better yet the dark.
Expiration soon enough.

She cried while I was inside her, from the moment of entry on. I kept pumping, as her tiny body fluttered and her eyes flickered rapidly between this new extreme pleasure and a fresh severe pain. She tried to move further up the bed towards the wall, I followed to keep it deep. She'd get dry and I'd spit on my cock until she calmed enough to get wet again. I felt the condom bunch, unnecessary friction. I slid it off, saw the blood. This time it was me who wanted her to look into my eyes. This moment will be with you forever, you should see me doing this to you. I want you to see me, feel me, hate me for doing this to you. I want it to hurt. I want you to never feel this ever again. I want this to define you, assail you in your most private moments when I'm long gone. No second act or repeat performance. Let me get what I want.

I'd find out later how terrified she became of sex. How joyless it'd been made, how little pleasure she got out of the act whenever she was coerced into it. She'd never initiate it. Who would want that pain. Who would want to sweat and bleed like that again? Who'd willingly invite that occupation? The cunt is a territory like any other. It must be forced open, it must be broken into. There will never be comfortable matrimony, it is theoretically and physically impossible. A woman is to be conquered. Every fuck is nothing more than an attack. It should never be less than the most intense you can put into it. There's nothing you'll be able to do to save her after. The purity is gone. Violation is the offense and it happens again and again.

Willingly or unwillingly.

It is everywhere as a symbol. The ultimate success. Validation. To pull your dripping hard-on out is a victory. Deserving of merit. How fucking stupid can you be? You're not proud of yourself, can't even see the fuck as what it is...merely physical. It is the attachment, the merit you give it. Admit it, you like the fact not that you were "let in," but that you forced your way. How hard you fucked her, she's never had better. Longer. Thicker. You broke her like no one ever has, tamed her. She'll never find a better fuck. That's what you want. That's the victory. That's the impression. There's your mark, the dog-eared page in the diary. And your mind wanders...what to do next?

How much more can I shove in? Can I make it hurt? Will you cum harder if you see tears? Would like to lick the blood off your fingertips? How beautiful her eyes are...do they get prettier the more they bulge when you begin to choke her? Do you want to kiss the vein that comes from her forehead as she struggles to breath, desperate? Scared. That fear, something you never gave her. You want her to beg for it or beg for you to stop. Just as long as there is fear. Fear she may never have you again or fear you're going to do it worse this time. Fear you'll get closer. Fear when you're done there will be nothing left...fear it's not over until you say it's over.

To have never had, there is only fantasy left. What could have been. All the things you can imagine, the scenes, scenarios, smells, tastes, colors. Places. Acts. They'll never be real. Merely speculative. But you can go as far in reality as you can in your fantasies. You just have to pursue it. That is the separation. The ones that pursue, the ones that "made it," become ostracized, unacceptable. They placed a physical value on their lust. They became, grew. You splintered and fell. They moved closer, self-actualized, got what they wanted all along. Satisfied their agenda, or, continue to take steps to go even further. You are resigned to cheap literature and sucking at their success. Starfucking. Fantasy compounded by fantasy. The desire will always remain.

To have had, you have a better opportunity to affect. You retain a more real desire. There are fewer abstracts, much more reality. There is a concrete history. There is some kind of memory, something to bring you back and something more to motivate you. There are scars and you don't know how they got there. You absorb triggers. Objects and situations cause reactions, uncontrollable very real frenzies in your mind. Regrets. Achievements. There is a finite period when you've had. There's aspects of past, present, and future. What was, is, will be. You have less control but more emotion. More desire. More motivation to get what you want, to leave the mark you want...never let her get away.

Take it.

Possess it.

No one else should have it.

You deserve it.

Don't let it go again until you've used it up. Until you’ve siphoned all you can. Until it doesn't even resemble human. Until it doesn't work the same way. Until the prototype is perfect, the canvas pulled taut and coated, colored throughout. Until it can no longer walk, but limp. Until it can no longer breath, but smoke. Until it can no longer...

Never let it go.

You can have it all.

***

Some people make it everything but they never surpass the border of the body. There are boundaries, built-in; what you will and won’t do. It takes convincing, sometimes. Let me cum on your face. Let me put it in your ass. Let me tie you up. Let me stick this up there. Let me watch you cry. Let me hit you. Hit me. In the end it all comes back to power. What I can make you do. What I can make you do to me. I can do so much worse. I can make you ache, break, forget, forgive. No essence, calmative. That exacting moment you knew you wanted me to stay around. To keep doing this to you. To keep being perfect.

Sex is no reward. Sex is a mild distraction, almost boring. It’s the attachments, the lingering emotions you tie up with the act. I know you use sex as a threat. I use it as a weapon. I don’t want to hurt, but I want to remain there—sweating out all the toxic seconds, the day, everything, feeling my hard cock slip in and out of you and your cunt squeezing it when I cum and forcing it limp to rest. I’ll hold your hand, not tell you what I’m thinking. Did I fuck you hard enough that you hurt? Do I make it so you get obsessive, scared even? Just how well do I do it—make you cum, make you scream? I have no time for sappy pillow-talk. I don’t want a word. I want to hear the blisters in your throat and lungs; I want to see the extent of your muscles waning in their movement. I want it again. Again. Now.

We’re soluble. We’re nothing more than an incorporated pair, trading secrets and details as if we were bartering for breath. Begging for something of the other. Something more but never getting it. Trust, as if we could, trust, yes, trust. I know the inclination, the need to have a route only you know. An escape plan, a replacement. That’s why I want to see you tragic and lost when I pull my cock from you, make you precious, disabled, wanting, needing. It’s romantic, really. My fucking god it’s perfect. You get epic off the bottle, liquor makes you a monster and I need you to cut you down. You rely on your little notions, your ideas. Your hatred for yourself, your body despite its subtle qualities that make me wretch and loath when I think of anyone else touching it. What do you want from me? Who are you?

Don’t tell me. I’ve got this immaculate history, this sequence that ends with me. And you, you’re getting what you want when you make this mess and I fix it. And you’re getting what you want when you get one over on me.

I’m studied, fixed. Your impulses make it difficult to keep the path. Threats, empty or not, threats with your tiny fluctuating body. What you call ‘dancing,’ the invitation of your flaring hips, dangling breasts—everything to keep me awake, reaching out for your body just to make sure you haven’t disappeared or left. It gets me off the best to do it hard. To see you in ecstasy—simple, pure, extremes. I’m stronger than the guilt, more steady than the weight. I’m what you need.

Bring your legs up, lock your knees against my neck. My head is sweating, dripping down to your face and breasts. Pull your hair until it comes out in my hands, gets tangled in my watch. See your eyes roll as if you’re about to start dreaming. Fucking you until I hear bones crack and whimper and you’re cumming and my balls get wet and my cock stays hard and I’m not done until you can’t imagine what it’d be like to be alone again. Slick and steady and violent and—

You won’t be alone again.

This is too good, too perfect.

More than bait.

This is truth. Everything.

Now you know too much.