St★rchild

Things were spinning and we were doing high-fives in the air to note our balance. The table was spinning. The seat part of it was. The table part stayed still. Then I was slowing down and there was barely a wobble to my movements. We were crossing the street and this girl from the movies came by, a child star, and she had red hair, and she was wearing maternity clothes, overalls, and when she got knocked to the ground shit came out of her and sprayed all up her back. Then she shit some more and chunks of it were everywhere, covering her like chili, and my friends wanted to leave her but I said, "Look, here, we have to clean her off." So we went into this alley where there was a hose and she took her clothes off. And I took my clothes off, too, to make her feel comfortable, and I held her hair off her forehead while I sprayed her, and we were gradually getting the shit off when the jostling of holding her got my dick hard, and she said, "Look, your dick is hard." And I said, "Well if you jostle around like we have been then my dick is bound to get hard. It’s bound to do that." And she started pushing it down below her pregnant belly, to her vagina, and she rubbed me on her, and then she put me inside the four inches that was left of her pussy and we fucked. Do you think she was just teasing me with her chili face? Do you think that? She was the child star of her generation, face as recognizable as a Campbell’s soup can. She had rubbed me on the soft part inside her, and it was the smoothest, that smoothest feeling for skin, wet and squeaky like soap suds, and you could cum right there, anywhere, she was fucking down as good as she could because she was pregnant and I got into it, washing off her face at the same time with the hose, cleaning that shit right off of her. It was around her eyes, underneath her mouth, all up her back. I sprayed the hose right in her face. She said, "Isn’t this great, you can’t get me pregnant.". And I thought about her as a girl, and how she was just a girl to begin with, not yet old enough to have babies, but she was. And I wondered who the other father was. I fucked her tight pussy style. Almost came in her, then decided not to at the last minute. I might decide that at any time. I might decide not to cum. I might decide freak destroyer in apathy with side guns on the port bow. Browsing. They were viewing us through windows. And each window was a slit of the tower, and it shone down upon us. And there was glory. Chunks of shit running down the drain in the alley, brown running down your legs as I fuck you. And we drew lines on a piece of paper to represent where the sun shone down through the window slits, and they shone to one central place on the floor. This alley with shit girl was only one of many being watched at the same time by the tower. Signal strength. They were watching the shit drain from between her legs and us attempting to fuck with her pregnant vagina. VaginaK. Illustration number one. Child star. Delinquent. Fucking because jostling made the dick hard. Jostling will do that. You have noted the dick as we have mentioned. Her back is to the camera, they want a better view but none is available. Maybe if he turns around, he could jostle her into a new position. But that baby is far along, and we’re seeing new potential of childbirth in this shit alley. What if she has it here? Will the cameras follow her and her new screaming baby with the umbilical? When she has her baby will it have red hair? Prose is the highest technology available for narrating consciousness. We use prose all the time here. In daily reports. The camera is used for spotting. For summarizing, prose is best. We make love to prose, make it serve us and it serves us. Oh yes. Prose is written across the faces of our screens, scratched into the plastic in some cases. We watch the images through the words. The. Jostling. Dick. Take me from a different angle. Announce it to her: "TAKE HIM FROM A DIFFERENT ANGLE." The announcement was made. They’re jostling around, barefoot, trying to get her face to the camera so we can see her when she cums. Don’t slip on the shit floor! Where did his friends go? They are still waiting outside the alley, for him to clean her up, so they can go on their way. But he is obsessed with the child star. To possess her like this, cleaning the shit off of her, fucking her shallow pussy, holding and jostling and being in tune with that red hair. And she likes him too, they were made for each other. Cue the music. If she had never shit her pants this wouldn’t have happened. If, when she hit the ground, she hadn’t shit all up her back, this wouldn’t have happened. It took her shitting herself at just the right moment on the concrete and him wanting to stop and clean her up. Don’t think about literary agents. Don’t think about that right now. How they never respond, how they’re always talking about "their list." Don’t think of them right now. Write the book about shit girl on camera, write those words. Leave the zippers exposed and never wallow in a seam. It is uncovered. You see from the tapestry side. All wild strings. There is a wall of cameras. Shit girl doesn’t have a name. You’ve known child stars like her, consuming everyone’s attention with their cuteness, growing into sexuality on the screen, we can all see as you’ve probably had your first experience, then as you grow into an addict, we’re all there with that, holding your heads in our arms and wiping off the shit. With a hose. Wiping off the shit with a hose. And you put my dick down there, wiping it on the smooth part and getting me inside you, and we fuck that last four inches. Period. I placed a period at the end of the sentence. There is theme music in some of the alleyways, special music. SubstructureK. MicropodQ. Once I get all the shit cleaned off of you I’m going to take a big shit right in this alley. Will you clean me up? Brandish the hose while your pregnant belly is bouncing now on mine and you sit and squirm. Open. Girl. Hole. Break and squirm. Candy at center of wood. That’s a magnetic poem I wrote twenty years ago. I still remember, just like I remember the soft place where I put it. We were twelve. You put in an Enya cassette and we fucked. It was so easy to cum back then. The medication makes it hard. You can never quite get there. So we all fuck to no completion, just remembering how it used to be when we could cum. She can’t cum either! She takes it too. That’s twelve types of medication, from ReginaldK to BombsquadG from AchingQ to MitigatingE, all the way down to VaginaQ, which causes a tiny nonfunctional vagina to appear on your forehead. You can’t even kiss it properly, it’s decoration-only, but it’s beautiful. VaginaK is the child star’s vagina. Screens are labeled for completeness. Refer to the labels in your prose. Skip a sentence. That is a trick. Think of a sentence you want to write, then think of the next sentence after that, and write that one, the next sentence. When we fucked to Enya it started out with backrubs. Back in those days. Now we just hose you off and your fumbling sticky fingers put tab A into slot B, then we soap-suds back and forth a little, don’t cum, and call it a day. When she was fucking me from the top she was heavy, with that pregnant belly, but she still looked like the child star, she was like Lolita in the last chapter, with-child but still a child, except this child star was really a child, eight or nine. Shit on her like chili. Have we exhausted that theme enough? Should we stop? I know you like the shit child. It has become a fantasy for you, something to think about when you masturbate. Some children the other day were tweeting their masturbation, I was hanging on every letter. Tweeted some of my own. Sitting on me with that tight pussy. I could hardly move! Her hips were twisting and the pregnant belly pushed me down hard on the tiles of the alleyway. I was lying in her shit chunks, they had gotten in my hair now, while she was mostly clean from my scrubbing and I never had any notion that it might be wrong to fuck this nine-year-old, she was a child star, it was ok. She grew up around this, they become adult more faster when they grow up in Hollywood. It’s hard to keep them a child when they’re growing up that way, in front of the camera. The angles were perfect now, the monitors could see the degenerate and the child star fucking lavishly, pee-pee-ing back and forth with their pee parts. ReginaldK adjusts the glass. He is high-enough ranking to send announcements. "KEEP FUCKING. YOUR THEMES ARE GOOD. YOUR ANGLES ARE GOOD. JUST KEEP FUCKING HIM. LIE BACK. LET HER MAKE YOU CUM. THAT’S RIGHT. CUM IN HER PEE-PEE HOLE. WE’LL REJOIN YOU IN A MINUTE." And ReginaldK went to monitor other stations. I was just looking up into her face and wondering how I got so lucky. The tile was cold on my back, and a traditional description almost squeaked in there. I don’t think so. But the tiles were cold, you have to know and there’s no way to get around traditional narration here. The tiles were cold, and shit chunks moored like ships in little puddles of water. A traditional description has been introduced. I am just typing everything I think. I have been invaded by cameras from the psych ward, they are with me in my room, they have given me medicine that will allow them to track me, they have invaded my mind. I don’t really think that I’m just playing. Never was schizophrenic. There were sweat stains on my pants, right near the elbows. Do you ever write fake things in your journals, so that when they come along behind you there will be misinformation there? I do that. I want to have some fun with the archivists. They never got to fuck in shit stains. Her shit was reddish, like her hair, I wondered if they made it like that on purpose. It bubbled out of her, half-liquid, half-solid, reddish-brown rocks. Bubbled right out of her ass. I cupped it in my hands, was tempted to drink from it, smelled it though. Sprayed it off her face. Got her all clean and ready to go back to the movies. But she was nice enough to stay on camera with me and fuck for a while. I think she liked it. My small penis was perfect for her eight-year-old vag. In the end she invited me with some free passes for her movie set, for cleaning the shit off of her, and I thought of us being lovers forever, I would get to fuck inside her eight-year-old mouth and finally someday cum inside her in the soft places, the squeaky places, the soap-suds places. My fantasy was large. In it she gave birth to that baby and fucked me with her skinny self. And that’s when I could truly fuck her butt, wiping off just the tiniest clings of shit, a memory from our meeting day. The announcer told her to get me off but all we could do was pathetically squirm, being cum-less due to our medication. In my fantasy we got off our meds and came wildly, hard cums. Decisive cums. It reminded me of some people from my youth, people that should’ve got fucked sooner. Now was the chance to make up for all that, see? I had it perfect in my mind. The turtle-head of my penis kept shrouding down to cover the tip and I would sneak my hand inside my pants to right it. Squeeze the turtle-head back up, let the tip breathe. It was annoying how it kept falling down in my old age—I was falling apart. Eight-year-old vag. Then I was getting cold sweats and the image of her in her first movies kept washing over me, I saw her riding a horse, joking with her on-screen parents. All I had to do to make her mine was wash her, care enough that she fell on the concrete and that she had secreted shit out of her anus that she needed cleaning up—and then she shit again! Really if you want to know the truth, the color is what drew me to it. If she had shat brown then I would have left her there on that sidewalk and run off with my friends. But that red coloration, I was sold. Had to find that hose. Get her naked. Shrug off those overalls. Get that shirt up over your head. Then she was coated with it, coated. Like she had shit up the side of her face and her belly and back and everywhere. Scrub-a-dub-dub! Nothing a little industrial-strength hose won’t fix. Close your eyes! Washing clean.f Seeing you.f Fucking you.f Those are programmatic functions, learn them. Refer to them in prose and you can activate parts of the matrix. Fucking.f Squeaking soap suds.f I love the squeaking soap suds part of sex, you know when it is just the right amount of tight and you squeak with each other, due to her soap suds, I love that part. I’m gonna be talking about soap suds forever, so be warned. I’ve done it in books prior to this one and I’ll be doing it in books after this one. You should repeat yourself. Because you’re you. And if you never repeated a thing, you wouldn’t be recognizable as you. We have to have some parts repeating so we know the thing is itself. So I choose to repeat myself here, simple as that. You might wonder what the point is of talking about shit this much. The point is that is what I dreamed last night, so we’re talking about it. In real life I’m not much of a shit man, but I loved it in my dream. Why would I have that dream? We’ll never know. But things are possible in dreams, things that aren’t possible in real life, like fucking an eight-year-old pussy, and writing is a dream. We should imagine things that are not possible, like hosing endless streams of reddish-brown shit off a redhead. A child star. Someone like Lindsay Lohan, in the real world. But in my fantasy, no one specific, just an iconic redhead child star of any variety. Shit. I got chills. Forgot to take my risperdal last night and it gives me chills. Clenching. Lights brighter than usual. High. You really don’t want to miss a dose of that one. Feels like I’m hallucinating. Can hardly type prose. Probably time to stop drinking on top of my medication, too. Must write prose reports. Let’s start with a basic discussion of genetalia, it wouldn’t be improper in light of what we’ve been discussing. He had a virgin-killer penis, not a regular penis. A virgin-killer penis. They had sex just because they were friends, and there was a condom available, at a party, like on a bet. The next day were all ashamed about it, not talking to each other. There is clomipramine and lithium and lexapro and risperdal dissolving in my stomach. Some take more powerful meds. If I don’t maintain them at their proper level, I’m fucked. This is the age where old high school girlfriends will have sex with you again or for the first time if you find them on facebook married or not they’re curious what it would have been like to have sex with you or they miss it from before. All you need is facebook to arrange it. It’s a very useful site for fucking old high school friends. There is a new kind of specificity in writing, which takes place post-inclusive language, in which you don’t try to include everyone with your words, and say "girlfriends" where I last said "friends", because you’re telling your story and your story only, and everyone else can transmorph themselves into your story instead of your story trying to cater to everyone who reads it. I didn’t use the word "friends" there for inclusivity, however—not exactly—but for more of an expansion of scope right there at that place and time. See, this story isn’t all about shit. Or Lindsay Lohan fantasies. Is Lindsay Lohan going to try to sue me because I used her name here? Probably. It was worth it. Smearing Lindsay Lohan with shit, using both hands, at her current age. I think she would like that she’s being talked about, even in this way, which is rather comic, if you’ll agree. Isn’t there such a thing as free speech? I’m eating spinach. Hopefully it will dissolve with the lithium and risperdal and make me a healthy boy. Anyway we need icons like Lindsay Lohan. There are some girls on twitter I would like to fuck. Mostly 19, interesting folks. But I would like to fuck them. That’s what pussies are for. They’re for fucking. They like to be fucked. They seek it out, if you let them off their leash. More spinach. When you go on a trip you have to remember to take your medication. I have a cat here likes to sit atop a box. When she’s on her box all is right with the jungle. I don’t consider rubbing one with shit as a degrading act. We’re not degrading the child star, above. She’s not degrading herself. She’s doing something natural, which is poop out her butt. Poop out your butt. Do it. Do it. Sometimes a little gets on you, that’s ok, just stream that along the skin, or wish for delightful chunks like the child star has, reddish-brown color. CircleK. Labeling. Prose. Reports. I’ll tell you a story called "The Shiteaters." I’ll tell you that story someday. See, the thing is there is no taboo anymore. Maybe for your grandmother. But among connected, vibrant people nothing is off-limits. There is no way to offend you; I can only make you laugh. Trout porn. You don’t care, no one cares, that the child star shitted herself and got fucked pregnant by an oldie while we wiped it off with a hose. As an image, maybe, you can enjoy the washing, can enjoy the description of fucking, but you’re not offended by it. It doesn’t really get under your skin, only the meaningful mundane can do that, the simple act imbued with extraordinary meaning, only that will get under your skin. We will have acts like that in this book. LabelQ. A label for a label. That label is labeled "LabelQ". It is LabelM. LabelM has itself been labeled. We’ll pack you up in a series of jars, capless, like yogurt jars, and bottle your essence to steam overnight. We’ll make yogurt out of you, is what I’m saying. Stick a dick in and stir it with your penis. That’s not really something I would say, I was only saying it as a reference to someone who would say that. Stir it with my penis. Three seconds. Hold it. Now spray your neuter-nose in that capless jar, with essence and pee squirting together, wrapped up in jars for everyone to see. They killed a painter on deadly drugs he was 27. This book is called Panopticon. What is a panopticon? It’s a prison, designed so the warden can observe every prisoner secretly, without the prisoners knowing. It is a box in which you live, where you are observed 24/7, without your ever knowing. This is how we live today. You are in a panopticon. You are a prisoner being observed. More generally, panopticon means "observe all." That is what we will be doing in this book, observing all, we will be our own warden and perhaps our own prisoner. It’s like watching a girl eat a banana. Oh, deal with it, my book isn’t gender-neutral. =) It’s like watching a girl eat a fucking banana. Not just any banana. A fucking banana. As in, a banana that fucks. Or, a banana for use in fucking. I could just type Lady Gaga lyrics in here. I could do that. I could get my ass squeezed by Sexy Cupid. Also, if you’re expecting there to be a plot to this book you need to get a different book. Plot is dead. There’s a plot here, it’s just a complex plot. It’s not the plot of a line, or even a curve. It’s a scatter plot, a very curvy curve. I’m tired from my adventures with skipping doses of medicine, and may have to save this report for another time. There is a picture of my cousin on the refrigerator, and she is wearing pink and smiling in this sick way, like it’s not clear if she’s of age and she’s being flirty, or if she’s just making that flirting face but is too young to properly be flirting. The picture is taken from above, looking down on her, and this angle heightens the sickness of the picture. It’s like when she was young she only learned to smile in that pleasing-father sort of way, but sexualized. And every time we get half and half out of the refrigerator, or pinto beans, or anything, we’re all looking at this picture of her in her girl state, smiling sickly to the watcher above. It’s the height of if she was kneeling before a standing man, ready to suck his dick, if you want me to be overt about it. That’s the angle of the picture. And then that smile. I can taste the taste of clomipramine after the capsule bursts in my stomach, it’s sparkly and harsh, effervescent bomb, and I remember the nurse in the hospital, talking to me about another patient, saying that he never did get better until they took him off clomipramine. I wonder if that will happen to me, if I’ll stay sick until they take me off clomipramine, if that’s what’s keeping me down, keeping me sick. I had a reaction to clomipramine in the hospital, or maybe it was Buspar, but I was unable to tell what was appropriate and what was inappropriate, unable to not do inappropriate things, in conversation with a woman, etc. I was talking with the art teacher and in my clomipramine state she found me very exciting, because I was saying all these expansive things, but I couldn’t help but flirt with her, or there was no longer a difference between flirting and non-flirting, and it was just all the same to me. I thought if they gave me more I might become a monster, not being able to control my actions, and becoming a rapist, but don’t worry, I’m on a very small dosage now. In that hospital they marked me allergic to clomipramine and didn’t serve it to me anymore, but later, in a different state and with different doctors, I simply told them clomipramine was one of the things I was taking, and they fed it to me. You could say I’m interested in seeing whether clomipramine was what caused that reaction, and that I’m interested in playing with that psycho state of not-knowing the difference between right and wrong, between appropriate and inappropriate, and so we’re slowly upping the dose. To up the dose I simply report symptoms that the psychiatrist interprets as obsessive-compulsive (which clomipramine is designed to treat) and he gives me more. I’m not sure how far we’re going to take this, but for now it’s still in play. I told that to my high school girlfriend, once, when we were making out in the front seat of her car in front of my parents’ house, and I had unbuttoned her pants and was going for the zipper and she said "How much farther are we going to take this?" and I said "Not much farther than this." If I had known then what I know now I would have fucked her, and I would have fucked a lot of other girls that I didn’t fuck, before and after that time. I have a special place for her vagina, in my mind, that I think about when I touch myself, and I imagine how special it would be, to touch her there. It has a color, to me, sort of a brownish pink that I think represents her pubic hair and her skin, but I see it as one combined color, when I think of it. It’s like the thing has a label in my mind, and the label has a color, and that color is brownish pink. We’re in the slow part of the story now, where we’re developing a character. We pulled you in with the hook, the description of the child star getting shit cleaned off her. Now we are in a lull, where we develop a character who will pull us through the rest of the book. He is the one who cleaned off the st★rchild with a hose. He is me. He is the one who went to the hospital and who has a picture of his cousin on his refrigerator, who likes 19 year old girls on twitter and who jerks off to the brownish pink memory of a labeled vagina belonging to his ex-girlfriend. Who labels things with letters. Who thinks in large blocks of text. That is the part we’re in now. He is 5’ 10", can’t dance, has a bit of a belly. Won the science fair as a child, many times. Published a book and now engages in some weird habits, from picking his nose and eating his snot to taking upskirt pictures and posting them on the internet. Upskirts are an obsession. I used to just watch them, like in movies like The Goonies or Walkabout, then I searched them out on the internet and then started making my own. Sharing them is the pinnacle, showing others what you’ve captured, what I’ve got. In middle school I used to steal girls’ notes, take them from their purses or off their desks in secret. I had a shoebox at home with my prizes. Now it’s a folder on my Google drive, which I’ve signed a user agreement that says I will not use Google services to store child porn, which some of my upskirts are, just little shots I got at the playground or at church on Sunday. I went to church as a child, then stopped going, then started going again in my adulthood as a way to meet people. It’s also a great place to get upskirts, family picnics, youth group activities, but there is something so pure about a child’s underwear skwunched inbetween their cheeks, that little white cotton. It’s not a sexual thing, exactly. I’m not attracted to nine-year-olds. Not sexually. But I am attracted to them, attracted to something about their life. Their life force. Their purity, and their energy. I lust for it, I long for it. Something of that power is contained in their underwear. Part of it is that I’ve captured the private part of you, taken a picture of something you would never show, and I own that part of you now, and I get more powerful with every one I own. You could tell something about yourself by how easily you followed my last logic, tell something of your own mental state and composure. But I think you see how in this part of the story we learn something about the characters, something of their natures, something of their energy. I’m not going to take you through the beginnings, the first time I went to church with my small hand-held camera and was too scared to use it, that first time I did get a picture, of a little girl picking her dress out of her butt. I never shared that one, that one was for me only. And it’s not like I jerk off to these photos. I have other movies I jerk off to. I collect these photos. Also, this won’t be a moralistic story in which the killer goes to jail or kills himself out of justice. The killer will have always lived in his own prison. Everyone around him will be in the same prison, and crimes committed will be like crimes committed in jail, interesting, but unpunishable. Once you’re in jail for life, you can’t be given any jail time, and that is how the criminals in this book will be. And there won’t be any purity, except the purity of the young. For everyone, with time, becomes impure. Without exception, age brings impurity. And by the age of twelve we are all criminals, equal, stuck in jail for life and left to play Lord of the Flies with each other. Did you read that book? That might be a good prerequisite book for this one. Sometimes the st★rchild would have me on set with her, and she would say things like, "Soft, soft, you come to me soft, you leave me soft, and you are hard in between." And I would say, "It is you who makes me hard." "Sometimes hard as a rock." "You play with me, and I harden. What is it about your nature, that does this?" "It’s my pheromones," she would say, and I wasn’t sure if she knew the word but she said it anyway. "What about your pheromones?" "I like them." "I know you do." I remembered this time when we had first met, right after the shit incident, when we went to a cafe in Tucson, and sat outside and drank chai and lattes. The owner of the cafe, Sabine, I knew from a long time back, and Sabine walked by our table and I knew she was raising an eyebrow at me for sitting with this girl who was about nine. But she was flirting with me back! She was old enough to know the word "pheromones" and I knew at the end of this was a humanity who had progressed to having sex not only with infants but with fetuses before they were born with tiny instruments tailored to their genitals I knew this is where we were headed. And then could you have intercourse with a baby that wasn’t yet conceived, going back and back like that until you couldn’t tell what was sex and what was a baby and what was an adult and who and where was having sex with who. Micro-modules of sterile instruments inserted into a mother’s vagina to probe her unborn child. We miss out on so much intimacy. A mother who wants to lick her baby’s pee hole. A father who wants to get his son hard. And babies are missing out on so much intimacy, and children. Like Aldous Huxley, kids should be having sex with kids so much earlier than we do now. It should be part of your upbringing. Puberty is no natural limit to sex and sexuality. I used to play with my parents’ vibrator when I was little. My sister would lie in the bed playing with herself and I would be next to her with my parents’ vibrator making myself hard. It was a mild form of cumming, but it lasted forever, like it wouldn’t stop. We never had sex together but that was as close as we came, lying next to each other in my bed with her under the covers and me on top. We learn young. We learn young. What is the rate of information at which knowledge of sex approaches a young person? It is self-learned, at a certain point, but we live in an age of externalized knowledge, which is pumped back at us, and what is the rate at which this approaches a young person? That is the question. We are children probing each other with instruments. Sex is around every corner. Always happening. I wish I hadn’t been so naive, and yet I wasn’t, when older men came on to me in my early twenties. I knew what they wanted. I was just naive enough to think we could be friends. And I should have been better at convincing girls to have sex with me. I was pretty good. I should have been better. Now I see no one. Copulate with no one. Live in a world of pictures and movies and tweets. Of screens and keyboards. Of mirrors. Mirrors are an old-fashioned concept. Now you can just use your photo application to take moving images of you and play them back to you like a mirror, so you don’t need a mirror. A brownish pink color. On the label. For her vagina. In my mind. VaginaK. K was her middle initial. Smeared along a mirror. The label was smeared. Her vagina smeared across the mirror, leaving streaks. Females will be the objects in this book. Females leaving streaks. Rubbed along a surface. Her smeary surface left a trail for me to find. There was no bass at all in the production, only high, high highs. You had a contest for sentence originality and I won. Rocked you right off the closet. There were weapons in mass and I sung a song to them, automatic weapons for killing people, there was a radio show who touted them, but we all knew it was bullshit, even the people who listened to it. I clicked my teeth together fast-pace, counting the beat with enamel. You slung the weapon above your chest, and it was there, in all its glory, and you ripped back the cartridge, playing with it, and I had echoes of an earlier more. There were nightclubs in green, neon curves, originality in tow, each one learning from the next, and I had a glass of bubbly for a true provocateur. He learned everything there was to know, then shaded into the background. I was his counsellor on shipmate sidewinders closing. Then the enemy came close, and we knew him by his signature. There were lunches to be had, dinners, state and otherwise, for to beg was to injure, in these days. I undertook a project, major, and bade myself for it every day. Took the over and the under. Bet myself that it couldn’t be done, and proved myself wrong every day. That is the tome you hold in your hands; it is weaponized as much as the strongest C-4, as strong as the kitty, meaningful as a slump. We weaponized religion, clockwise, aching for more of a human angle, but there was none to be had. Fifteen seconds left, angling, wrenching, beating on the shore. Attack planes were intermittent. The star-child gave her baby up to the dodger, and he snuck off with it down another tunnel. He was ungrateful, the cartoff slob, begging presence with kings, making mudpies in syllogism and snorting the rest. It was at at the back of his throat, chunks and peasants, my fortune teller friend telling my fortune by my side, she had it in correctness, every tune, from the day I was born to the day I died, she had it on. The grammar checker had all the words wrong and I was a mess of squiggly red lines. I’m back, said the champion, and he was, but none of us knew what it meant. We watched a movie about white trash revenge, puzzle-seeking, and she had her dad’s hands in a chainsaw. That was the ending. I don’t remember it because I was drunk. But it must have ended somehow. I don’t remember the final shot, is all. I would be homeless without my family, would be striving for typing time in a public library, shitting in my pants and wandering Vermont for a jacket. That’s what I would be. Instead I write to you from a broken years-old MacBook who keeps up with me, on Google Docs, as long as the signal lasts. I measured wordcount with a keystroke and bathed the st★rchild in neosporin, she capitalized herself in bold serif and took a wank in the shower. I watched her as she came, her eight-year-old self rubbing that pussy like a job. She was fourteen, she was eighteen, she was eight. She smacked it every once in a while and I wondered why. But it seemed to make her happy and this time she wasn’t covered in shit only sweat which she wanted to wash off. I supported her; it was my shower. And afterward we’d lie in plumet sheets discussing the difference between a verb and a noun. I kidded her about this, for she misused one for the other and I loved her for it. It was part of her appeal, her verb tense, and I thought about it when I was alone. My virgin-raping penis was ready to take her slightly. You had lost an adverb. We bowed together in France, and made our respects. And then I took her, and it was yum-yum sillypuffs, that smooth smooth feel of a yellow vagina. Smooth like yellow, the color. Smooth like butter. The part all around her vagina, too, it was the feel of butter, spread skin. Glory. That was the real weapon. Nothing hard; something soft. You worshipped it in temples built to women, where they danced on poles and squat for dollars, I was there too, I built one of those temples, I saw her spread her pussy out and show you all the red inside. She let you look and she was dancing for an audience of one. What bad tips. As much as I could give her. What a slow night. Audience of one, I’ll be damned. I was the only one in that back room smokely. Smoking. And she talked to me about Ghanna and where she was from, and we connected, on a soul level, or so I thought. She was only going for a green card. I got played. She let me fuck her a few nights later, hoping that I would go along with her plan, but once she had dropped it I wasn’t interested. I didn’t want to help her get a green card. I was trying to fall in love! She liked her Ghannan men. Better than white men. What I was was a white man. She lost her virginity to one of us over Craigslist, I say to you this. She was very cultural, even ours, and I liked falling asleep listening to Ghannan fairytales after I fucked her hard cunt. It was tight like a crunchy asshole, and I could hardly get into her, it was amazing. It was like I could feel her cervix, and it was tight and hard like a fist, along with the muscles of her vagina, which were dry and tight and grabbed me like black pussy always does. This title is ensectioned "Sex with Strippers" which is something a lot of people aspire to but few have actually done. I don’t spend a bunch of time talking about it but I’ve fucked strippers. Extremely hot women. Women who sell their bodies—almost. But I saw a gang fight on Maury and it was paternity tests everywhere. The worst-looking dude was the only one telling the truth. I mean he had a really mean look about him. Maury hugged everyone as they came onto the stage. Then he made fun of their lives on national television. You’re always on camera, even when you’re backstage. We celebrated your worth with a pickle, a mouthful of cheese. At the end Maury just sent you home with some money and then was the rest of your life. You kept on being dramatic. Kept on cheating on your sister. Or whoever. This one show had this giant pair of panties found in the couch and they thought it belonged to the fuck-girl. But the lie detector said they were just a random pair of panties, which I guess could be true depending on where you bought your couch. They have therapists now days, that come to you on twitter. They follow your account and you follow theirs and they give you advice based on how often you masturbate (or whatever you say on twitter) and they’ll even follow a few of your closest friends to see what they’re up to. I had this one who would write random poetry with me. She never gave advice but I found what I was looking for in the fact that she would write me. I terminated after a few sessions, though, because of her avatar. It wasn’t her face and it made me nervous, I thought she should show herself if I was paying by the hour. There were other people to write poetry with. Where did all these paper cuts on my dick come from? I have them in my mouth! There are paper cuts covering my mouth? Do you believe me? (No.) Do you believe I’m drinking wine? Do you believe I have paper cuts on my dick? Do you believe I paid for twitter therapy? Do you believe that I watched an episode of Maury? Do you believe the story of the st★rchild? I believe the story of the st★rchild, that child star was waiting for that to happen to her. To trip like that, and fall and hit the sidewalk and shit all over herself and meet me? That really broke up the monotony in her life. She needed to break out of a rut. St★rchild. Child star. A new pair of glasses. Paul Newman movie. Trash can full of empty wine bottles and Burger King containers. Now do you believe that I’m drinking wine? I have a sum of a gift card balance across two cards for Burger King. I got them for Christmas. More details, do you believe me more? Or is it just a confidence of statement, when we tell the truth, that makes the difference? Listening to Nine Inch Nails’ Closer isn’t the same on tiny earphones. You need the bass. That’s the second time he’s mentioned bass in this book, what does that mean? Why can’t I turn up the volume any louder? This life is too quiet, too minimal. It could use some more texture. Colored words. Synesthesia. I got where I could see the shape of a word in my eye. Every time I said the word, I could see the outline of the word in my eye. I told my doctor and they decided to keep me in the hospital. She had me tell her my mental landscape, the moonwalk, she called it. So I wrote it out on index cards and read her the whole thing. Turns out some of the things I thought were really fucked up about me, didn’t trouble my doctor at all. I thought they were going to keep me because I was a danger to others, but they let me go. They thought I was fine, and that made me think I was fine. I’m a sucker for what doctors tell me. Just believe everything they say. Apparently I’m doing fine now, and I only have to see them every few months for a quick meeting. The medication is helping my adjustment to the world. I am much better able to function now, which basically means to conform to others’ desires and demands. The opposite is misadjustment. The goal of psychiatry seems to be to adjust. To adjust one to the external world. You should be wary of people who speak complexly. Simple speakers are best. I muscle my way through xanders and kindle the groin of a certain redhead. Rub sticks between my palms to get her going. Blow between her legs. Someone said people spitting in pornos is ridiculous, that if you have to spit on a vagina you’re doing something very, very wrong. I wholeheartedly agree. Do you realize that a book is like having a massive conversation with yourself? Then other people read it and then they’re having that massive conversation with themself. Or maybe you’re having it with them. A one-sided conversation, mostly. Does anyone expect this stuff to be read? The Library of Congress, collecting all our tweets. Will anyone ever read them? Probably the computers we invent who take over our species, that will be the target audience for the library of tweets. It will analyze us for fun, gain insights about the human species by reading our tweets. Only a brain so powerful could make sense out of the relationships between the tweets, out of the tweets as a whole. If you have to spit on a vagina, you’re doing something terribly, terribly wrong. You’re drinking it even though you hate the taste. Stop drinking it. There is freedom on the other side. See I’m not trying to hide the fact that I’m an alcoholic, like that other guy. I’m not telling you one thing in interviews and then doing another thing in my spare time. I don’t give a shit what you think, as long as you think I’m great. I want you to fear me, not to think we’re alike, morally. I sort of backed into that sentence in a way that makes it mean something different than what I started out to say. See what you do is you start by watching other people’s stuff, and then you learn the world, and then, one by one, you remove your crutches, until nothing is left but you and the work, no word counts, no magic robes to write in, no music, just you and the words. Simplifying all the way down to what you are actually doing. Getting rid of all the extra. Getting it to where you can do it good, every time, to where you’re setting trends as a matter of course. Like ringing a bell. Then you do that for the rest of your life, because you’ve figured out how to live. I have a scrape on my foot where I scratched it with the other foot. It needed a large bandage. I need to go more gentle on myself. Stop masturbating so hard. Do it like feathers. I think that’s why it’s hard for me to cum in a woman, because I’m used to doing it so hard with myself. To cum in a woman I need a woman with an extra-tight pussy, which is why I talk to teenagers on twitter. My dick (a virgin-killing dick) is the right size for their pussies and their pussies are the right size for my dick. Oh, to rub yourself off inside a girl, it is my ideal pastime. If she is soap suds then it’s even better. I don’t even mind if some other guy is fucking her, as long as she fucks me. We can even fuck her at the same time, one goes, then the other goes, like that. They have training simulations in the military you wouldn’t believe. Entire walls of information being bubbled up to a commander, taken from basic sensors about the world. I think I went crazy in stages, this being the next to final one. I’m drinking for the effect is has on me. We lay in a bed once like that, me and this girl and another guy. And fucking her was so good. We had broken up a couple years earlier, and my sister was making out on the floor with this guy we all called "The Fifties-Looking Guy" because he looked like he had just come out of the fifties. There was a noise violation called that night and that’s one of the many nights I failed to fuck Tosha, Natasha, this girl I badly wanted to fuck but it never worked out. Now she’s facebook. My other friend said she had a skanky pussy just based on the number of people she had been with, but her face looked nice and face is usually a good indication of various qualities of their pussy. Ratted-out face? Cute round face? Red face, red cheeks? Check for evidence of these below. But I love pussy, love its every shape, love it from every angle, it’s a god to me. Love to lick it, eat it, bite it. Love them hairy, love them shaved. Love when they match the face of the person it belongs to. Do you think she had a skanky pussy? I don’t think she had a skanky pussy. She had thin blond hair and creamy skin. Now she’s having a baby. She was too petite to imagine that, I would be scared that she would fall apart but women manage. They seem to have been made to do it. I hate when one gets nervous and starts wanting to have a baby, like starts reminding you that the point of sex is to make babies. I personally don’t believe that is the point of sex. We use it in too many ways now, for that to be considered even the primary reason for the existence of sex. Creamy skin. Wonder what her pussy was like? Was it skanky? No. It was creamy, probably one with thin lips, like that one girl with the vibrator. I can see her sitting on top of me, or lying back with her legs spread, taking it. We wore the same color shoes to a wedding once. Red. I always like people with red shoes. I can tell a lot about you if you’re wearing red shoes, especially Converse. My ideal woman wears red converse, definitely. She packs lightly for a trip, isn’t afraid of adventuring. Has B cup breasts. I just did a Google search for "B cup breast" and found the most disgusting, forensic photographs of B cup breasts (and some other sizes) that you can imagine. One more reason to love anime porn. See ourselves as we imagine ourselves, not as we are. Don’t even get me started on furries. There was a chipmunk in the woods once who got shot, I won’t tell you about it here. Anyway there were multiple occasions on which I should have fucked her but didn’t. It was always logistical problems. Or I got my doubts that she had a skanky pussy and put her off. I bet it was fine, though, I bet that girl was just telling me that about the skanky pussy because she didn’t want me to sleep with her. Fuck. It’s these types of things that make me have to answer yes to the question, "Do you have regrets?" It’s those type of things. Do we need to discuss panopticon again or did you get it? I thought so. Good. I knew you were smart. We need to have smart people picnics where all the people who "get it" get together and celebrate. I think we used to do that in high school. I mean I think that’s what we were doing. We used to have these picnics in the lunchroom, with just the freak kids. You get it. We were reading Camus in French, and that shit was hard. Try to read The Stranger with five years of French. It’s hard. I’m writing till the battery on my laptop is dead. That’s how I do it. Measure your day by how many times you need to recharge your device. Use up all your minutes. Use, use, use. We’re frenetic like this. Collecting information in our heads, putting out a trail by which others can track us, computers reading your lifestream. Drinking till we vomit. Vomiting explosive-style. Toxifying. Breathing. Copulating. Snot collecting in noses. VaginaK, in the front seat of her car, on top of me, asking me how much farther we’re going to take this. Are we going to copulate tonight, dear? No, I don’t think so. Are you going to copulate with your best friend on a bet? Yes. Why not. It’s a dashing idea. I once copulated with my sister but we keep it under wraps. Not the best idea, but, like fucking your best friend, curiosity gets the better of you and.. Two is the new three, get with it. I’ll take another glass of wine. The malbec? Last night I had a fabulous $8 chianti for my birthday. $8/glass. Light. Thin. That famous smell. We are writing a panopticon, a see-all, for a single life. Two dollars for a telescoping back scratcher. Three with tax. Missing vagina on a long trip. Wishing I could have brought VaginaK along with me, even in our old age, I would fuck her now with no hesitation. They say men are too into sex, that we obsess over it, and I think that’s true. I think it is the job of at least one gender to obsess over sex, to make sure it happens. We love how you look, we want to be with you in every way, you want us back, and the species survives. Make sure she gets pregnant. That is the goal. I would like your parents to be present, VaginaK, while I dissect you, cross-section you, would like them to see you split open and fucked in diorama. How special that place is! How warm and bright! They sent you to the wrong hospital, they were supposed to send you to the Retreat, instead they sent you to Westside. I wanted to be in the mental hospital with you again. But they sent us to different places and you got out before me, like always. They really think I’m fucked up. I would have called you back except I’m scared of you, you’re one of the few girls I’ve been scared of in recent history. You’re too cool. When I saw you at the pottery wheel in that apron I fell in love. I did. I know you were with someone else but you’re poly so who cares. I can’t help that I fell in love. Watch white trash movies. Winter’s Bone is a good one. I would start smoking again if we were together, just to smoke with you. We’d drink coffees and do art on the floor of my apartment, except this time I’d kiss you right when we walked in the door, and you’d get hot, and we’d fuck. I like that version better. Don’t you? I have a virgin-killer penis. Want to see? You can literally make up your whole world. You can literally do that. Just start from scratch. Build your house up around you, brick-by-brick, and other people will believe it. You can make them believe it by you believing it. VirginC. Coriander. Coriander is the virgin we call C. She is a virgin. She has a label. The label’s name is C. Coriander I met on the internet. She’s a revolutionary. I am sexually attracted to her but I would never fuck her because she’s too young and I feel there is a power imbalance in our relationship. But VirginC is cool. She might not be a virgin we just label her thus. But she’s inexperienced, definitely, you can tell from the way she talks. But you can tell she’s going to be great, though, you can. That she’s really going to become a revolutionary. She has ideas, this one. She’s a spark, this one. Just the kind of person I was friends with when I was younger, our crews would have married to form a huge Jet-Shark alliance. Your real impediment to fucking a lot of people is your in/ability to meet a whole lot of people who don’t know each other. Because among classy people they won’t fuck you if you’ve fucked their friend, and so you have to pick one out of a group of friends to fuck (generally). But fucking a lot of people was never my goal, I don’t see it that way, I’m not into conquesting or scoring. I actually have a madman connection with the people I’ve fucked, except recently, when I’ve been so desperate that I’ll just fuck—not anybody, but—my standards are lowered. I don’t meet people as cool as people I used to meet in high school, I think it’s because at this age we’ve all gone stale. No one’s still fighting for their lives (sadly). No one’s still working to change the world. Everyone settled on a mate and had kids, becoming tyrants and fanatics about their parenting styles. As if the only thing that mattered in the world was your parenting style. As if a kid to some degree wasn’t independent of your efforts to shape them. I’m all for intentionality, but I’m not for fanaticism. End soapbox. Fan page on column six. Language tools. You give up your hobbies as you focus more and more on your kid. Anna still smokes. This is going to be a pillar, a pillar. A single column. People are desperate to find a genius. They’ll make one up if they can’t find one. It’s like the Pope. Someone is going to fill the position, because we always need one Dalai Lama and one Pope, one Kurt Cobain and one Britney Spears. There’s always one female folk vocalist who is hot at any particular time. In my day it was Tori Amos. Now it’s probably Lana Del Rey. Same thing with literary genius. There has to be one Picasso and one David Foster Wallace at any given time. If there’s no one worthy lying around, someone will be chosen anyway. That is the nature of these positions. There has to be a President. There has to be a Pope. Maybe with me there has to be a VirginC. Always some young thing to fawn over, remind me that youth exists and that I was once there, see the world through her eyes. VaginaK had a baby. I saw some picture of it on facebook with the baby on VaginaK’s back in a sling. There is a chiropractor who reminds me of yoga types that I’d like to fuck. She wears saris. We’ll call her VaginaD, because she reminds me a little of this girl Deidre I knew once. VaginaD. Though girls like VaginaD would never be into me because they’re health nuts and they want a crunchy crunchy boyfriend with a full beard and vegan tendencies who smiles at the sun all freakin’ day, worshipping the god Pan or something. Girls who I would like to go for me: all types. Girls who I would most like to go for me: badasses, revolutionaries, backpack girls (girls who travel with backpacks), traveling girls, skater girls, surfer girls, actors. Girls who do go for me: badasses, revolutionaries. Problem is there are so few badasses and revolutionaries. You have to wait around ten years to meet one. And then maybe your revolutionary is also emotionally abusive so you have to break it off and then you’re stuck waiting the ten years. I’m a lone type. I don’t "mingle." I have a few people who filter the world for me. I meet people through them. You can’t get close to me. This is by design, because I don’t like the noise. But meeting people can be difficult. Most people are flaky. They like you enough to fuck you a little but they’re not falling in love kind of people. I’m a falling in love kind of person. With my friends, with my girlfriends. I’m in it like fire and I want it to last forever. I give you my full self. I’m open to the core. I want the same in return. Now we have built up some basic ideas of character, and it is time to return to our story full-force. Remember the shit-baby? She will come into play here. We have a label that’s been overloaded! VaginaK refers to both the child star’s vagina and the high school redhead whose middle initial is a K. Abort program. End of run. Stop. We’ll re-label the child star’s vagina VaginaL. Conflict resolved. Continue. Oops. I came in you. VaginaL was too good for TV. Mmm-mmm. There’s that kind of guy who gets all kinds of pussy because he goes along with whatever girls want to do, movies, like romantic comedies and cooking dinner at her house and shit, he’s this creature that evolves for the purpose of seeking pussy, that’s what he lives for, exists for, that’s his whole existence, is placating females into giving it up to him, that becomes his thirst, his quest, his vengeance. When I start sending you dick pics it won’t be as funny. I remember my old girlfriend. She needs to be fucked. That’s all. Needs to get good and fucked before she goes to bed tonight, is what she needs. That’s what I used to give her when we were together. Fucked before midnight; sound asleep. She was wrought that way. Britney Spears vagina pics! Oh yeah! Lindsay Lohan vagina pics! Google that shit, get scared to shit. Want a celebrity milkshake, nothing different between them and us, except they’re the chosen ones. Some people are just overachievers. You have to start acting like it, you have to take it for yourself, this fame, this royalty. Some, like the st★rchild, learned to do this at a very early age, were taught by their parents to be special, to need special attention, to demand it. I just deleted a word, that’s my first time in this document I’ve edited. We’ll try to refrain from further edits. I tried to masturbate this morning, but couldn’t. The medicine stopped me. I couldn’t even get all the way hard. It makes me want to discontinue. But there are so many people around me who would warn me from discontinuing. I’m expected to take medicine now. If I don’t I’m shirking part of my responsibility to stay healthy, because we all assume I’m better off with medicine. And it does help, I think. I don’t want to kill myself anymore. Lady Gaga just rode through on a tricycle. Giant pacifier, inflated bug wings. Theatrical as always. Charlie Sheen inviting us into various green rooms as he gets ready to go on television. That antiquated way of saying "television" instead of just TV. The child star was taught by her mother, she grew up being famous and it did a number on her defenses. She trusts no one, always thinking people are trying to use her—and they are. Trusts the occasional director, as they generally have the best interest of their actors in mind. Trusted me because I have my own elevation of fame that comes with the writing, that she knows I have some inkling of how it is, maybe in a different industry. Knew that we would have something in common in terms of people wanting you and you not being able to give them what they want, exactly. I type words with one finger, maybe two, max four, thumb for the space bar. I typed my name on the st★rchild in fingerprints just above her bellybutton, on the side, typesetting my name on her body, to the imprint I would make. After I washed the shit off her we went to a restaurant and she asked me questions and I asked her questions. She wanted to know how to get into noveling and I wanted to know about her next film, we were bright stars standing out from the relief. Sat at a corner table. A few looks from the servers, a turned head or two (for the st★rchild) from customers, and I was famous by extension for all the people who didn’t know my face. I can still go grocery shopping. My name is known but not my face to many. The child star gets doors held for her, pictures taken wherever she goes, has to travel with an entourage, radios her security when things get rough. Her entourage had abandoned her when she shit herself, though. Couldn’t take it. "Child Star Shits Herself" is not the headline they were expecting. Just ditched her when she shit herself. That’s when we found the hose. And come to think of it, my friends had ditched me, too, when I was all about cleaning her up. Just gone on down the road, like they never knew me. Now it was me and her in the restaurant, at our corner table. "People are looking at us." "They’re looking at you." "They’re looking at you, too. They can tell that we’re special." "They know who you are." "They probably know you, too, dear. Don’t be modest. I knew you by your jacket photo. Except the beard is nice. Are you in disguise?" "Just easier to maintain." "I think some of my shit got caught in your beard. Here. Hold still." "Don’t eat it or anything." "You think I would do that? Do I scare you?" "A little. But I like to be scared." "They can tell we’re bright, bright shining like the stars. That’s what they’re looking at. Can’t you tell when you meet bright people?" "Yes. You can see it on the face. You can. Just one picture of you and I would know you were bright. I’ve looked at your pictures, you know." "Did you masturbate to them?" "No. Well, some of them." "Which ones?" "The ones with. Do you really want to know?" "Dahrling, I’d be charmed to know." "Ok, they’re just the ones. Black and white ones. With your face." "You masturbate to my face?" "Mmm-hmm." "Do they have any boob in them at all?" I shake my head. "That’s so sweet! Ooh baby, come here. Let me sit on your lap. Do you think they would mind?" She starts rubbing my dick. I’m getting hard in the restaurant. "Should I find a place for us to go?" "No, eat your pancakes. I want my baby to be well fed." "I’m perfectly well fed. I need your pussy, is what I need. I need you to drip on me." "You want that?" "Yeah, I want your juice to spill out on me, run down my cock, like that." "Yeah?" "Yeah." "That’s so hot, baby. Did you write that just now?" "Yeah, I’m writing it down." "Are you writing down everything we’re saying." "Hold on. Yeah. I’m writing down every word we’re saying. Do you mind?" "I think it’s sexy." "I want to have this for posterity." "Are you gonna put it on the internet?" "Do you mind?" "No, I want you to. I want us to be in the internet, forever." "So it’s ok if I keep typing?" "Type. Type. Baby I’m gonna ignore you for just a minute and get some of my food. Ok?" "Yeah get some good food in you so you can make some more of that red chunky shit." "Do you know how I think I did that?" "How?" "Indian food." She laughs. "I’m pretty sure it was Indian food. I had some paneer masala and I think that’s what did it. Maybe next time. Baby are you listening?" "Yes." "Maybe next time it’ll be throw up." I smile. "Did you get all that?" "Mmm-hmm. Got it." But she’s still rubbing my dick and it’s all the way hard, like before medication, as hard as it can be. "You’re gonna make me cum through my pants." "I want that. I want you to come. Do you want my mouth?" "Maybe just a little. Don’t be too conspicuous. I don’t want to get kicked out of here." "Whats does ’conspicuous’ mean?" "You really don’t know?" "No." "It means to put your mouth on me right now! No, it means that you’re drawing attention to yourself." "So don’t draw attention to us?" "Right." "So I shouldn’t do this?" She unzips me. "Right." "And I shouldn’t do this?" She works my penis out of my boxers, sticking straight up beneath the table. "Right. Don’t do that." "And I should definitely not do this?" She goes down and just licks me, right up to the tip. I’m sure a little liquid comes out of me. "Baby. Do you want me to get us a place?" "No, I want you to eat your breakfast." "Like this?" She nods. "Fine." "You will?" "Sure." "I love you." I look at her. "You love me?" "I just fell in love." "Because I’ll eat breakfast with my dick out?" "Strange things do it to me, just go with it," she says, and I do. I eat my sausage and I sit there with my dick out and it gets soft so she moves her hand over and places it around me, hot little fingers. She rubs it a little bit, and I get hard again, and she puts on lipstick with one hand, holding my cock in the other, rubbing the shaft. I catch our server looking over at us. She comes to the table. "Doing alright?" The st★rchild answers. "Yes." "Need anything else right now?" "No, we’re wonderful, maybe some more orange juice, do you want more juice?" "Sure." "So yeah. Juice. Thanks." "Be right back." "Do you think she was looking at us?" "You mean, looking at this?" "Was she? Was she looking at your cock? I’ll kill her." "Don’t kill her. Get her to join in." "Do you like her? Seriously. Do you want me to get her for you?" "Get her for me?" "Do you want her? I can get her if you want. Hey! Molly! Come back here." She stops in the middle of pouring our orange juice and comes back to the table. "What can I get for you?" "My boyfriend here wants you. Are you a hermaphrodite ’cause you’ll need to have a pussy for this. Do you know who I am?" "Yes." "So you’ll come home with us?" "When?" "Right now, your shift is ending." "I can’t, I’ll lose my job." "Is that the only thing holding you back? You would come home with us if it weren’t for that? You’re not snubbing us?" "I’m not snubbing you. I’ll be right back. I’m going to get your orange juice." "She lacks imagination, don’t you think?" "I think she’s scared." "You weren’t scared." "But I’m kind of..doing my own thing. I was ready for you to come along." "You were ready?" "In general, yes. Prepared for the possibility." "For the possibility of me specifically or someone like me?" "Someone like you." "But you had thought of me, specifically, when you masturbated to my face. You won’t deny me that." "No, I won’t deny you that." "You’re a kind man." "Thank you." "Do you think I’m kind?" "I don’t know you well enough, but no, kind is not the first word that comes to mind when I think of you." "What is the first word you think of?" "Mmm..mayhem. Pandemonium." "What’s pandemonium mean?" "Mayhem." "Mayhem? That’s the word?" "I’m pretty sure. Yeah." "That’s my word?" "Why, what were you thinking?" "I was thinking something like sparkly." "No, definitely mayhem. Think of when we first met. You hit the sidewalk and suddenly shit was pouring out of your ass, covering you like chili, you were a mess from the first moment, spraying your red chunky shit all over the place and I’m glad we found a hose! Imagine if that alley hadn’t had a hose! You’re pandemonium on screen and off, I can tell. That’s what people pay to watch, though—it keeps you rich." "You think I’m pandemonium, huh?" I look her in the eye and nod slightly. "What’s the first word that comes to mind when you think of me?" "Stupid." "Stupid? Why don’t you work my cock a minute, bitch." "Uh! Bitch? Who you calling a bitch? Look who’s calling who a bitch! ’Cause you been my bitch since I met you. I wanted to shit myself. I wanted you to clean me up. I made you do that, because I knew you were kind and a kind person would help out. None of your friends are kind. They left you at the first sign of trouble." "Your crew left you too." "Motherfuckers. They ain’t gettin’ paid for today." "You pay them?" "What do you mean?" "You pay those guys to come around with you?" "Well they ain’t doin’ it for free! Yeah I’m payin’ ’em." "I thought some of them were your friends." "Well if they wasn’t hangin’ ’round with me they’d have to get a job, so yeah, they get paid." "Wow." "What?" "That’s just..amazing." "You want me to work your cock again?" "Yeah." "With my mouth?" "Let’s get a place to stay." "I like it here, we can order food whenever we want." "You can order food at a hotel." "Just shut up and let me suck your cock. Just shut up. I’ve heard enough from you." So she did, she sucked my cock in the Denny’s, got it all the way hard again, then with drool coming off her mouth lifted her head from it and came across and kissed me on the mouth, her pregnant belly pressing into my cock. "Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?" "Just shut up and let me kiss you." So they were lovers for a while. Each one liked the other and the other liked the one. When the air-conditioning turns off the silence scares me. They did get a hotel, and proceeded to live there, ordering room service and generally avoiding responsibility, of which they both had much. To write the next thing. To act in the next thing. She didn’t have her baby yet. It stayed inside her, no one knowing its sex and when they fucked they were careful of the baby. The st★rchild called her agent in LA and said she was going to be staying in New York for a while. I brought my laptop with me and wrote from the hotel. There was all kinds of strangeness from the st★rchild that I could pepper into my novels. We bounced like lovers do, like that high-hatted lover that must have you. And there was a haberdashery below which carried a nice selection of infinite suitage which we both dressed in, natal haberdashery for her, that was fine for getting us up the street to Denny’s and the playwright’s restaurant, where we ate steaks and I drank wine for the two of us. She had a tiny sip. I drank a bottle. Then I switched to vanilla vodka neat and we walked home in the dark of Times Square. It was a nice little marriage of convenience and debt-paying, she felt she owed me for cleaning the shit off her and I felt compelled to stay with her until she had her baby at least so that she could heal and we could have sex once or twice with no baby in her. She thought that was a noble reason to be together, and promised me that she would be even more foxy shitless with no baby and I said honey you’ve got me on your finger. Pull the trigger. Bam! You got me, you had me at go. Like fucking you with the baby in you, for all those super-smooth pussy parts like slip-n-slide rubbing against them is all I imagined. When I wasn’t in her I could feel the feel of being in her, through memory. She had the nicest pussy this side of the Mississippi. It could pop! me off into degeneracy any time of the day. We spray-painted the walls in the elevator, tag-bombed it until the fumes began to overpower my pregnant partner. But it was more our style, before they cleaned it, and we left the spray cans in a stairwell to hopefully meet up with some other’s degenerate hands. Child slept a lot of the days, and she shitted in the toilet, discretely, contrary to our first meeting. I encouraged her to eat plenty of cheese and she was willing. I managed to write two chapters of a novel the weeks we stayed in that loft. Most of the time was spent with my hard dick placed inside her sweating pussy, poised, ready to do my thing. Then we would fuck real quick and I finally came with her, despite the medicine. I could cum with her on rare occasions when my sperm beat the lexapro to the punch and it squirted into her, no worry of having kids right now. And she smeared it on her belly and into her bellybutton, and it would dry and sink into her skin. She didn’t want it to go to waste. I used to lick it off her belly while she was smearing and it didn’t taste bad, had sort of a kick to it, maybe that’s because I eat so much spicy food. But we both licked it, it was good for us we thought and I didn’t mind getting a little of my spunk down into my lungs and heart. Pinto beans are excellent for your crap. Once that baby was out of her belly she had two weeks and then it was back to filming in LA. I hoped she would name it after me, even though we just met and all we had really done to each other was fuck. She liked my beard. I think she liked that I was older, but I never discussed age with her. I didn’t want to make it an issue that she was only eight. I didn’t know her exact age, but it was something like that. Eight or nine. Smoothest pussy. Loved it. Smash-bang. Virgin-killer dick. Oh man, used to love to finger her. One finger and her vagina was tight, could hardly get it in, and my dick is like three fingers. Holy shit that girl was tight. I hated thinking about a baby coming through it but that was her choice to get pregnant. I didn’t ask who the father was, either, just dealt with her on her own terms. You can’t constrict a wild bird, they’ll fly away the minute you try to. I didn’t like to be constricted, why would she? Just live with me on your own terms and deal with me about stuff that has to do with me. Me and you. That’s all there is. Holding hands with fingers locked together while we fuck, it’s that good. Sweating on each other. Me holding your hair out of your face, just like I did when I was washing the shit off you. Your hair wet with sweat, pasted across your forehead. Sweat dripping off my beard. Then I clench myself inside you and you can feel it and you clench yourself around me and we talk like that, for a while, with clenching and sweat. "Have you ever had it this good?" "No. Have you?" "No. I’m better when I’m not pregnant, I promise, you’ll feel it." "You’re fine right now. We do it so close, and I love when you look in my eyes." "Do you mind when I look away?" "No, I love that too! I think we really fit together, we match." "I think so too. I want you to come with me to LA, get out of here for a while, can you do that?" "Where are you gonna have your baby?" "Wherever I am. Can you come with me?" "Won’t people be upset, since I’m.." "Since you’re older than me? I don’t know why people would be upset about that, but you’re right, they will be. You want to order pizza?" "Let’s order ice cream." "You want ice cream?" "Yeah." "You never said if you’ll come with me or not." "I will." "You will? I want you to be around me all the time, even when I’m working, I want you on set." "Can I bring my computer?" "Yes, you can bring whatever you want. You will? Yay! Oh my gosh LA’s going to be so much more fun with you there!" She squeezes me with her hands. "I don’t believe you’re coming." "There’s one thing." "What?" "I don’t think I was meant to be a father so when he or she comes, I’ll love it and hug it and kiss it and everything, but I’m not that kid's dad and I need you to understand that." "Understood. Yes. Baby, were you worried about that? I understand. Not the father. You don't have to do daddy stuff for this baby, that's fine, I don't expect you to." "Ok." "Ok." "Does that bother you?" "No, it's fine. As long as you're with me." "You want to fuck and then get ice cream?" "Yes!" "I don't think I can cum again." "That's alright, as long as you can make me cum." "I can try, I'm very tired." "I think you'll do fine. Do you mind if I play with my clit?" "No, play with your clit." "Ok. Good. Fuck me now." "Ok." "You want me to get you hard?" "That would be nice." So we used to do it like that, I thought she was magnificent and she didn't seem to want to pin daddy on me for this kid. I would probably like it more in person when it came out, but I didn't want to be obligated to like give it the sex talk and everything. She got off and we ate ice cream. Then we ate pizza. Amazing. A girl who likes to eat like me. All I had to do was meet a pregnant girl. She was getting really big these days, like she was going to pop, and I imagined us going to the hospital together in New York. I didn't want to see it come out of her, I didn't want to see that happen to her vagina. But she wanted to have a kid, had that mothering instinct at eight, had to have one of her own. I thought it would be hard for her to take care of it, because she was so flighty. Not flighty but, yeah, I mean, somewhat easily distracted. Likes to go on random adventures. Changes her mind about her staff often. Fires people. You can't fire your kid. She could get help taking care of it, especially when she was on set. She would have to. Hire someone to take care of it. I imagined sitting next to her on the bed and putting my hands on her belly and pressing down to get the thing out of there. Start labor if possible. Could you do that? I thought you could. Just push down and get that baby out of there. Like popping a pimple. Much better. Then she would have to exercise to get her figure back again. My little eight-year-old with her distended belly! She probably doesn't even know the word distended. Will have to teach her that one. When she was born we would have clit-play. Settling the little baby saddle-style in her mother's mouth, mother's hands cupping the girl's buttocks, and the mother licking wildly. The little girl squirming in her saddle, trying to make herself cum. Tiny clitoris. Mother's big tongue. And I would imagine the baby shitting in her mother's mouth, liquid shit coming out her baby cheeks and filling the st★rchild's cheeks, mother gagging on the taste. But the st★rchild had a taste for baby pussy, needed to rock its tiny clit with her mother's tongue. She said we were missing out on so much intimacy, and I agreed. The st★rchild showed me many ways to play with a small baby which I had never thought of. Many involved the child's tiny clit. Some involved her budding vagina. Some involved her eentsy-weentsy asshole, her scat. We had much fun with this one, who she called Olivia, and who I was already becoming more of a father of than I had anticipated. We would take turns licking her clit, satisfying her, we didn't want her to miss out on sensations she would otherwise miss until she was much older. It made me hard to tongue it, and st★rchild would play with my nipples and grab my penis while I did it, reach around and jerk me off while I was licking her baby's tiny clit. The baby would get very quiet when we did it, occasionally letting out a squeal. But she never cried. It was a sure-fire way to shut her up if she was pouting. At a restaurant st★rchild would reach down her diaper and finger her with her little finger, quieting the child. We would taste her pee, no shame, suck it right out of her while she was going, just to get the minerals. Then we'd pass it back and forth between our mouths, st★rchild to me, and back, then we'd finally split it halfway and swallow. It was our own kind of private way that we celebrated her, we kept that to ourselves because it didn't seem like the general public would appreciate it. The st★rchild has some radical ideas about how to increase intimacy in the world. I happen to agree with some of them. But sometimes a revolution has to occur in private before it can go big, and we viewed ourselves as pioneers in intimacy, and we kept what we did with Olivia pretty much secret. Of course we did tweet about it, under an anonymous account, so that those who were ready for it could see that they weren't alone. @JanesDearDiary. What else? Do you want me to tell you that we ate her scat? Maybe we did put a little in with our smoothies, maybe just a fingerful. It's not important. You can discover your own alternate nutritional ideas. Eating undercooked meat, fish, and eggs can cause illness, even death. You do want to be careful. Take plenty of antibiotics, etc. And anything that makes you throw up should probably be avoided in general practice. But don't you wonder what her shit tastes like? Don't you want to put your mouth on her tiny pussy and see if it tastes like wildflower honey? I did. I guess that's part of why st★rchild and I were compatible. I would mouth her daughter's tiny vulva while st★rchild sucked me off, we were rewarding each other. Keep sucking st★rchild. Keep bouncing your head on my cock. I will please your child. My grandmother keeps walking in while I write this and I'm worried she'll see the word "vulva" and kick me out for writing this book in her house. Take a sip of water. Compose. Continue. Write about the st★rchild. Tell us everything you know about her. Cross out part of the panopticon. The st★rchild liked when I peed in her, on her, in her mouth or on her head in the shower. She loved to drink pee. I've never met anybody who liked to drink pee as much as the st★rchild. And she liked me to drink her pee, and I complied, locked my mouth around her vulva to get a seal and let her spray up into me. She would just be lying on a bed and she'd pee on it, knowing we'd have room service to clean everything up. She liked to see the spread of a liquid stain spread out across cloth. She got me to pee on her in the elevator once, she was covering her head with her arms saying "No, no!" but she didn't want me to stop. She was pretending that I was an attacker she just met and I was pissing on her. She liked to think about people pissing on her. Like her dad. She told me these stories he used to piss on her in the shower, she didn't know if it was a real memory or just something she imagined, that had become real. I suspected the former. But you never know. My father also took showers with me way beyond when you would normally stop taking showers with your kids, and I remember being eye level with his junk and not liking it. He did the same with my sisters. He had this fetish about parents being open with their kids about sex, so much so that they would leave the door open while they did it, and we (out of natural curiosity) would follow the sounds into their room and see what they were doing. They left their copy of "The Joy of Sex" on the living room table, and their vibrator was all-too-easily available in their bedside table. So yeah, me and the st★rchild had some commonality in growing up, with parents who were at least a little sexually weird, and we had further developed these talents. I was glad that the st★rchild liked to lick buttholes, for instance, because that shit feels so good it makes me cry. Literally, makes me well up with tears. And I liked being able to do that to her, too, because I wasn't squeamish. So the baby came in the hotel, st★rchild had her own doctor come meet us, and they did it in the hotel bed that we would sleep in. I got to cut the cord, which I never should have done, it was way too much of a fatherly thing right from the beginning. But I got to hear all of st★rchild's screaming and see that wrinkly thing come out of her. All I could think was I don't want her pussy to be distended and I can't wait to see her skinny again, like in the pictures I had seen of her before we met. I didn't care what she named it. And oh—there, is it a girl. Olivia, though, is what she went for, and I thought Olivia sounded like a troubled child and an even more troubled adult, but that may have been a necessity considering the source. St★rchild shit herself when she had the baby, and I thought back to the day we met, when st★rchild had shit herself, and it made me proud. After the birth st★rchild let me clean her off. I did it with washcloths and hand towels from the bathroom and warm water, no soap. She let me clean up around her pussy. It was a pretty intimate moment, the doctor holding the baby and me cleaning off the st★rchild, the door to the hotel room open and the sound of Olivia screaming. Then the doctor let st★rchild hold her baby and I was amazed to see the sizes of their bodies relative to each other. I hadn't known an eight-year-old could have a baby. Or nine, whatever. I was thinking ahead, thinking of how many generations they could fit into a century if everyone had babies at this age. What level of great great grandmother would still be alive when the youngest one had its first baby. "I'm nine going on ten, mister," she would say, when I forgot. "Oh, sorry." "Don't be sorry." "Are you going to LA now?" "Soon. Are you coming with me?" "I think so. Do you still want me to?" "Yes, yes, I do." "Ok, then I'll be there." "We have to ride on the plane together." "Ok." "Let's leave in a couple nights." "Are you going to be ready to travel with her?" "I think so. I'll ask the doc, see what he says, but yes, if it's alright with him, I say let's go. Do you need to go home to pack?" "I'll buy more stuff when I get there." "Is your apartment going to be ok?" "Yeah, I don't have any pets or anything." "Oh baby, someday I want to see your apartment." "Am I going to stay with you in LA?" "Yes. Unless that's too..constricting. Is it?" "Let's find out when we get there." "Ok, baby. Come here. Kiss me. I just had a baby!" "I know!" "Do you believe it?" "No." And on and on like that we arranged our plans, and I did feel constricted, in a minute, to be traveling with a woman and her baby, and I went back to the day we met in my mind and I was thinking, what am I doing with this woman, just because we have great sex, just because I was fascinated with her in her movies and now she's next to me, what am I doing? But the fact was when I thought about going back to my friends I felt just as constricted. Small-minded, insular, we were a deathtrap. All I had was my writing and people I knew through it. That was my lifeboat, at that point in my life, and I figured, fuck it, I'm just as well with a stranger and her baby on a plane as I am anywhere. So I turned from the birth mess and I left the st★rchild lying in a bloody, shitty bed, and I left Dr. Chavez and Olivia, and I went to my place at the hotel desk, with my laptop, and there I sat down and pulled the chair up and put my fingers to the keyboard and I began to write the story of the st★rchild and me meeting and me cleaning the shit off her and us living in a hotel room in New York while she had her baby and then I started to reach into the future and write about what would happen on the plane to Los Angeles and what would happen when we got there and how all our lives would change for the better, somehow, the st★rchild would start making better movies and I would sell more books, and how Olivia would grow into a healthy teenager who hadn't had babies yet and she would make her mom proud by going into some normal career like oncology. The term oncology literally means a branch of science that deals with tumours and cancers. The word "onco" means bulk, mass, or tumor while "-logy" means study. I think of Olivia getting her tiny period, poor baby having cramps and bleeding through her tiny pussy, from about week ten. The st★rchild wiping her up with toilet paper, blood all over those tiny pussy lips, little chunks of her uterine lining having come down the stream, clots and globs of hematic material flowing from her. It takes a lot of gall to stand there watching a baby's period and not say anything. Watching the st★rchild clean her, and say nothing. To hold your tongue, all the while. But that's what I did, I didn't say a thing. Just watched it happen, watched their periods synchronize and as I licked the blood clots off the st★rchild, she was licking them off of her child, and we were like that, in a circle, Olivia grabbing my dick with her tiny fingers, the st★rchild greedily lapping at her daughter's bloody pussy, and me eating the blood clots off the st★rchild like a delicacy. The child star would have me wipe her butt sometimes, after she took a shit. She would lean forward and I would take a swipe of toilet paper and reach between her cheeks and wipe all the way back. It gave me a thrill to see her shit, her shit, on the paper I was holding. That was the child star's shit! She let me hold it! Then I would wipe her until she was clean. I would sometimes think of saving off a piece of it, for later. I wasn't sure what I would do with it, but I had this instinct, this urge, to save one of those pieces of paper to play with in private later. It was the same way with the child's panty liners; I used to glue them to the inside of my undies and pull them up. It would make my dick so hard. To think of where her cunt was, inside her panties, and that it would be coated with these liners, and now that was on my penis. It was almost enough to make me cum without touching myself. I would let that panty liner rub against my dick while I walked, it made me mega hard. We used to get these stool sample containers from the hospital and play with those, shit into them and use that tiny shit spork they come with to mash the shit around, pick up little pieces of it and put them to our mouths. Dare each other to swallow. "Olive, Olive, be quiet. Shh. People are trying to sleep." This is us on our NY-LA flight, I'm sitting there typing and Olive is waaa-ing away. I had to go to the bathroom so I snuck back to the rear one and locked myself in. In this tiny space inside an airplane, it's like being confined within a space in which you are already confined. I had to shit and I thought of our shit games while I did it, but I wiped normally and flushed, visions of shit wiped all over the compartment walls but it wasn't right. Actually that's not why I didn't do it. I didn't do it because I would prob'ly get caught. What do they call that? Is that a sociopath, who doesn't do things for the right reason but because they don't want to get caught? I can never remember. But whatever it is I think I'm one of those. Back at my seat, Olivia was quiet for a minute, st★rchild was breast-feeding her, and I smiled at her and she lay her head down against the side of the plane. I got situated and pulled out my laptop to write. I use Google documents, and they have this very nice feature where you can write even if you're offline for a few hours, it syncs up afterward. But everything looks the same to you, whether you're on a plane with no internet, or connected up at home. I tried to remember the meeting of the st★rchild, it was a blur because of all the time we had been spending together, but I tried to get it straight. The st★rchild was walking down the street, with her crew. They ran into me and my friends. When st★rchild hit the sidewalk she shat. It ran all up her back and she shat more, and it covered her face like chili. My friends wanted to leave her but I said no, we have to clean her up. So we found an alley with a hose in it and we both stripped down, her so the shit was accessible, me to make her comfortable, then I was holding her head and keeping her hair out of her face while I washed her off and the jostling made my dick hard. Then she rubbed me against her and we fucked. That was pretty much it, right? The memory had faded since the day it happened, but I was holding together the basic elements with my words. Now that it was typed it would harden, the events themselves fading behind, even my sense memories of the situation fading, and what would solidify was the words. We would go back to them, and back to them, and they would be taught in classrooms, and the words would be our central meeting place, beyond which nothing could be reached. You could re-write the story, and in a second telling it might forget a detail and add a detail, such that there was always one canonical version (the version at the beginning of this book) and everything else was a variation on it. Every fairytale has a central version, one we view that way, then there are millions or billions of retellings, more or less recalling the original. In the future there will be a free food supply for humans, consisting of a shake that contains everything we need. People will still buy and eat "regular" food, but this free shake will be available for anyone who wants it. It will be provided by industry, by technology, for humans who are now essentially its pets, like cats are to us. The biggest readers of books will be computers, not people, computers will read us trying to figure us out. In the future st★rchild will feed me from her teets, and I won't bite too hard, but she'll suckle me while she jerks me off. I'll cum in her hand. She'll smear the cum all over her face and get some in her mouth. Her perfect small hands jerk me off. Soft little hands, delicate little thumbs. I pre-cum in her hand and it smooths the way for the rest of her jerk-off. Once I cum she keeps rubbing, to make sure I get the last of the sensation. It becomes unbearable, to be touched, at that point, and I clench and squirm against her, my hands clasped together above my chest. I wish we could do this on the airplane. That would be ideal. St★rchild jerking me off in the airplane seat, me suckling her teet. I couldn't wait for her pussy to be ready again, I needed it, missed it, and wanted to see what it would be like after Olivia. Instead I sat back, adjusted my screen, and undertook to write down as much of what had happened between me and st★rchild as I could remember. I had dreamt it, and it was happening in the story I was writing. Was it also real? The st★rchild was sitting right next to me, holding her baby. So it was real, too. It was all of these things at once. You get the feeling watching certain movies that they weren't able to do what they wanted to, based on what was on the page. American Psycho is one of these movies. There is such a disparity between what happens on the screen and what more that happens in the book that it's almost a different story. Certainly more tame in the movie version. Same thing with Teeth. You look at certain scenes in that movie where say she's sitting on the edge of the bath and staring into nothingness. You get the sense that she would be playing with herself in the script, but they couldn't film it for a variety of reasons. Hollywood is neutered thus. We need more graphic films. And more graphic books. Don't pussyfoot. As I certainly am. I certainly am! I am giving you one-tenth of the story I could give you, because I am afraid! This is the best I can do. Someday a real writer will come along and give you exactly what you should be given. It isn't me. I will do in the meantime, as a stopgap, something to tide you over until someone real comes along. Do you believe that? It doesn't matter. It's irrelevant; it's just a writer's doubt. Do you believe a writer's doubt? It makes no difference, nothing I say will convince you of anything! Is it even real? Is that how I feel? You don't even know that? You know nothing! I know water flows into the glass. I know water flows out of the glass. I know teets are for suckling, farmer bent down sucking the teets of his cow directly, unpasteurized milk, full fat. I know that blood is the life force, I know that I should drink it, like roses need blood, people need blood too. I know in a nosebleed situation, that the patient swallows gulps of their own blood and it must be good for them. I know that I take the child's menstrual cup and shoot it like whiskey, clots and all, and I contain her, I gain some of her power. Power that she would throw away, extra power, so it's not like I'm taking any away from her. Slam! Slam that cup, swallow, wince, slam the cup down on the side of the sink. See my face in the mirror, blood clot hanging out of my mouth, a drip of blood on the other side. Wipe it off with the back of my hand, go again. "Let's go again!" "I can't!" "I want to suck your pussy of all its blood. Bring you to me." "Stop, baby! Stop!" "Bring you here." I'm grabbing her hips, bringing her close and cupping my mouth around her pussy lips, sucking as hard as I can, reaching my tongue up inside her to ream her out and she's grabbing my hair and squirming her legs and pulling away from me. "I want more." "I know you want more but I have to make more first. Let me tell you when the cup is full." "Does this make us vampires?" Yes! Yes! This makes us vampires. That means I can sell this book to literary agents as having to do with vampires, and they'll pay attention right away! "I want your blood!" "I want you to have it. I do!" she shrieks. "You're a monster." "I'm a menstrual vampire. There's a difference. Make more. Go and make more blood madame." "I will. Trust me, I will. Give me that." And so on, etc after she had had her first period of our relationship. I liked her not-pregnant. I liked her pregnant too. The st★rchild was my idol. If you're wondering what parts of this book to believe and which parts to take as fiction, I would recommend you believe..all of it. "Gimme my cup!" "I have to clean it first!" (With my tongue.) I'll give you your menstrual cup in a minute, bitch. But you're my bitch. "C'mon, let's have mess-free sex on my period!" "What are you saying?" "That's what it says in the ads. Let's try it." "Try it? We've been having mess-free sex on your period." "So it works." "It works for more than that!" "Give me. My motherfucking. Cup." "Here." "Thank you." She squeezes it back up inside her. "Now I want to have mess-free sex with you." "You do?" "Mmm-hmm. C'mere." We had mess-free sex on that and many of her periods, though we were no strangers to messes, so it was more of a novelty than a necessity with us. I liked her blood on my dick. But it was fine to have blood-free sex with her as well, with the baby crying on the bed next to us and st★rchild's pussy fully available now that she wasn't all squished up with the baby. "Your cervix's dropped." "Don't tell me about my cervix. I need to make some calls." "Can I fuck you while?" "Yes, just go easy. When you slam into my cervix it hurts." "Ok, I will." "Lancôme? Yeah, we're back. I need you to come over now, help me with some things. Don't ask! Lancôme, I'm serious, right away. Ok. Bye. Are you still fucking me? You're doing it so gently I can hardly feel you. Ok. Just a few more calls. Keep doing what you're doing, you don't have to go so gentle, it's ok I just don't want you slamming into my cervix. Kenzie? You there? Call me back this connection's terrible. Yo. Come over I'm back in town. Yeah you can bring people. Who do you want to bring? Just bring two or three. No more. Kenzie. I've got my baby now I can't be havin' too many people over. You're gonna get to see her! I know. Get your ass over here. Bye. You can fuck me harder I didn't mean to scare you with the cervix thing. I'm telling you: fuck me harder. Here, I'll wait to make the rest of my calls until you cum. I want to see this." So she watched me cum, and then I left her, and she went back to her calls, lying naked on her bed with the baby lying beside her in a disposable diaper, quiet now. When Kenzie got there it was "Hey guurl"s and "What up"s and this slightly-human form of communication in which they caught up on what's been going on and how everybody had been doing. Kenzie and Lancôme had both been there in New York when the child had shit herself, and they'd flown back separately once it was clear the child was spending time with me. I had seen them only for a bit at the hotel. "Lancôme, I need you to get me a babysitter. Nanny. Whatever. Someone to take care of Olive. Can you do that without further prompting?" "I got you. You need a nanny. Do you want a man or a woman?" "Doesn't matter. Just get someone I can trust my baby to! Go! Go!" Lancôme went down the stairs with her phone out. St★rchild was on the bed with just her panties on. Kenzie and three other girls were crowded around Olivia and I kept spazzing and thinking she was mine, that I had been the father and just forgot, then I would remind myself that I wasn't the father and sort of pinch myself out of that reality. So these girls are crowded around Olivia and they're coo-ing and ahh-ing over her and I'm trying to learn everyone's names but they don't have the slightest interest in helping me do that, they just want to fawn over Olivia and the star. "So..you're Forest?" "Brooke." "Oh. Sorry. And you were?" "Mehgan." "Hi Megan." Then she coo-coos insanely over Olivia and I start to wish I was the father so I could cut out this nonsense. Kenzie is the only one who will talk to me. "Were you there for the birth?" "Yes, it was beautiful." "Did you two have fun in New York?" "Yeah, we just fucked the whole time." "That's my star. Good girl. I think she likes you." "Child, I'll be downstairs." I grab my laptop and she smiles, and I go downstairs to the first floor of the st★rchild's house. Lancôme is on her phone, typing. "What are you doing?" "Placing ads for nannies. If you need anything let me know." "Really?" "Yeah, anything you or st★rchild need, just ask." "Can you order sandwiches and stuff?" "Whatever." She says it cheerily. I settle into one of the chairs and start writing. "Lancôme." "Yes?" "Can I get a cheesesteak?" "Sure thing. Anything for st★rchild?" "Yes, get her a lasagna. And have them put olives on the top of the lasagna. Ok?" "Ok. You want to ride with me to pick it up?" "Um. Sure. Be nice to get out." "Ok, let me call it in, we'll go." Lancôme orders the lunch on her phone and I'm listening to giggling coming from upstairs. "Ready?" "Let's go." Lancôme has an old Honda hatchback, black, with zillions of political bumper-stickers on the back, left-leaning. "Why did your parents name you Lancôme?" "They didn't. I named myself that." "Why?" "Sort of as a joke." "How long have you worked for the star? You do work for her right?" "Yeah. About a year. Her last assistant quit. Couldn't take her bossiness. But, if you're a personal assistant, you know, what do you expect?" "What kind of stuff does she make you do?" "Everything." "Like does she make you do her laundry?" "I get someone to do it. She doesn't make me get messy or anything. If it's something messy she has me get someone to do it." "So how far away is this place?" "We have to go to two places. But don't worry. I know a place for really good cheesesteaks, you'll like this one." "I'm not worried. Just thank you for getting this stuff." "You don't have to thank me." "I'm used to saying thank you." "But I get paid. So you don't have to say it. It's better if you don't. Just tell me to do things and I'll do my best to get them done." "Ok." "Ok, good, now let's enjoy the ride!" And Lancôme puts her moon roof down, and there's a little opening in the roof of the car, letting in more LA air and the sun. The cheesesteak was excellent, and I forgot about our agreement and thanked Lancôme, but she didn't give me a hard time about it, just gave me a look in the eye and I gave her a look back, and we understood that I wouldn't do it again. I ate the whole thing in one sitting and was aware that I was getting fatter, it made me uncomfortable and I wondered if st★rchild would start to hate me if I got fat. How fat could I get and she still love me? I ate the cheesesteak anyway, downstairs, on one of the comfy chairs, while Lancôme was returning calls to possible nannies, and st★rchild sat in the bed upstairs eating lasagna in just her panties, with Kenzie and friends all around, worshipping her. I had gained ten pounds over the last year, which was not the direction I meant to be heading. She didn't seem to mind (it was all in the belly) but would it push her away? She was already recovering from the baby, getting her figure back, those little eight-year-old breasts. Should I do sit-ups? What was the best way to get rid of a belly? Maybe I should pick up a Cosmopolitan for Tummy Trimmer Tips. I thought of picking up smoking. I would have to eat less, was the bottom line. Less restaurants. (I know it's fewer, bitch, let me alone.) And characteristics like this are where this thing could be lumped in with Alt Lit, which I definitely do not want to be lumped in with. Note to self: make a list of things I can do to exclude myself from Alt Lit. Ways to Dress, etc. Maybe my weight was enough to exclude me. Alt Lit is all skinny hip people. I'm neither skinny nor hip. Maybe that was enough to do it. My penis felt warm, when it hit the sides of my legs, and my scrotum was warm, too. It made me want to masturbate, but, I can't, because of the medicine. At least I'm psychologically healthy. Can't jerk my loins but at least I'm psychologically healthy. My shoulders ride up when I type. It can't be very attractive. The st★rchild doesn't care. She likes—whatever she likes about me, and that isn't going to change. Maybe change the hair. If I grow a beard I definitely couldn't be in Alt Lit. Maybe if I ridicule more Alt Lit writers publicly, I'll fit in less. Be less accepted by people whose association puts me closer to the Alt Lit camp. Definitely grow a beard. Start exercising. Maybe use aging creams. I'll never look eight but I could look closer to twenty. Honey, I'm four times your age. I used a calculator for that. Drink more water. Scratch your nose. Pretend to be typing. Maybe I'll have a good idea for this book if I sit here long enough. I've got the st★rchild, there's that. I'm having sex with an eight year old, so there's that. We've got those two things going for us. The discussion of shit, that's something. The candid author-side snapshots, like this one. I have ideas for possible endings, possible themes. Not sure how long it will take to get from here to there. Trimming words off sentences. Clipped. Didn't need that one. Must lose weight. Absolutely must lose weight. Do my chores. Write my book. Use my own unique style. I am a snowflake. I could say Lindsay Lohan was calling. No, her lawyer. (The phone rings.) (I answer.) (It's Lindsay Lohan's lawyer.) "Who was that?" Lancôme says. "That was Lindsay Lohan's lawyer." "Why?" "She's suing me for using her name in my book." "The book you're working on?" "Yeah." "But it isn't even published yet, how does she know it's in there." "I'm live-writing it." "What does that mean?" "It means the document's available online for anyone to read it, they can watch me writing it live." "How did she find it?" "I don't know, she must sit around googling her name or something." "That's pathetic." "No, but it's stuff like that. Like if you say 'that's pathetic' then it gives her suit strength, because you're defaming her. Or libeling her. Or something. I don't really understand the nuts and bolts I just understand that she's suing me." "You just found this out?" "No, I've known this for about thirty pages now." "Weird. You measure time in pages. What can I do to help?" "Call her lawyer back and tell him that you know who really wants her to drop the suit. No, there's nothing you can do, I have to go to court." "Right now?" "No, but in a couple of weeks." "Well don't worry about it, then. If there's nothing you can do." "I could edit her out of the book. I really wish she'd just come around and see I'm not a bad guy and that if we hung out she'd really like me. Do you think st★rchild could talk to her?" "You mean her alter ego, st★rchild? Like could Lindsay's alter ego talk to Lindsay herself about getting you out of this law suit?" "See, don't say stuff like that, it'll get me in trouble. St★rchild isn't Lindsay's alter ego, I just said that if the st★rchild were real, she might be Lindsay Lohan. But I clearly stated that the st★rchild wasn't Lindsay and that Lindsay wasn't the st★rchild so whatever defamation suit she has should be dropped." "I get you. Won't say that she's her alter ego anymore. Sorry." "It's no problem. You might have just cost me ten million dollars (which I don't have), but it's ok. I have to write. Sometimes I think I can do this and sometimes I feel like a complete idiot. I'm just an idiot at a keyboard. Who isn't? We're all idiots. But especially me, since I'm trying to be something. Trying to maintain some sort of fame, nothing like the st★rchild, but still, my own level of fame. Do you ever just feel like you're an idiot?" "No," Lancôme says, and I leave her downstairs to do her work, shutting my laptop closed and going upstairs without it. St★rchild is kneeling in her panties with the lasagna tray beside her. Kenzie and friends are in a semicircle around her. St★rchild is talking. "And I'm not going to be seen anymore with him. He is out. Out. If I ever see him it will be in court." I say, "Are you talking about me?" St★rchild leans over and hugs me, her breasts rubbing against me. "We're talking about..your predecessor." "Oh." "This real sly guy, thought he was all that. Thought he was a banger. He can gangbang all he wants 'cause he will meet his end." "Fuck him." "Yeah, fuck him." "You're done with him now." "I know, try to keep up, that's exactly what we're talking about. I'm done with him. If he fights for the baby I will take his ass to court." Then she turns to me. "Don't worry, no one's taking our baby away from us. We'll go to court if we have to." "I might already be going to court." "What for?" "Lindsay Lohan is suing me." "What?" "Yeah." "Why?" "For this book. She says it's defamation of character or something. She wants to make me the next eTrade, but I don't have the deep pockets to pay her off." "What?! You have got to be fucking kidding me. Your book isn't even published!" "I'm live-writing it." "What does she do, sit around googling her name all day?" "That's what Lancôme said. I don't know what she does. I thought she would like it, Lindsay I mean. I thought she might get the humor." "Let me have a talk to her." "Could you? I mean, are you connected?" "She'll take a call from me, yeah baby, I'll take care of this. Don't worry. I'll call her right now. Gimme my phone." "You have her phone number?" "We've met, yes. Lindsay? It's the st★rchild. I'm gonna cut straight to the shit why are you suing my boyfriend?" St★rchild looks at me. "Is that ok if I call you that?" "Yeah." We kiss. "Yeah well that's my boyfriend. I think you two should meet before you sue him. Fine, sue him! But I think you should at least meet before you sue him." St★rchild thought about telling Lindsay the part about him cleaning off the shit in New York with a hose, but decided against it. "Well, I respect that but I'm saying I think you should meet him first. This isn't eTrade! Ok, I'll call you back later." St★rchild throws the phone down on the bed. "She's thinking about it. She might meet you. We'll just have her over and see if we can't straighten this out. Awww, I'm sorry baby. Poor baby, Lindsay Lohan is suing you. Poor, poor baby. Come here? You want a handjob? They don't mind. Let me get you off, come up here. You want my mouth? I'll use my mouth a little." I get up on the bed. St★rchild fellates me while Kenzie and friends watch. St★rchild plays with my nipples and finally sucks me off, a big wad of cum in her mouth. While she does it Kenzie and friends just sit there, dumbly, occasionally talking about a boy they met, mostly just sitting silent. It makes me nervous, but still I cum, right there in her mouth—bang! When she's done I don't even pull my pants, I just lie there curled around the st★rchild, holding her crotch to my face, she's got a leg over my neck. I'm just smelling her through her panties, the smell of her cunt, it pacifies me, and, my butt sticking out in Kenzie's face, I think about falling asleep. I'm taking deep breaths, like meditating, but with the only purpose being that I inhale as much of st★rchild's pussy smell as humanly possible. They're talking. Mostly it's st★rchild talking, this weird monologue. "So I was telling Ranger that everybody got naked on the set to make me feel more comfortable, and that was the only way I could do it, was if everybody got naked. I mean Callis's dick was hanging out, his balls, all goose-looking, like a fucking turkey neck but that's what made me ok to do it, was seeing Callis's turkey neck. And one of the cameramen had a really big schlong, but everyone else was normal to small. It made me laugh to see it! But we did the scene, which Ranger thought we would never do but I talked to the producer and I was like 'See! We did it!' and he was happy that we got the shot of course. Of course all those guys care about is the money. Did you see any new pictures of me come out?" "No." "Are you sure. I'm sure some little cameraman had his phone out. Did you see anything?" "No, star." "Good. Those motherfuckers. I know somebody took a picture." "Why do you care? It's going to be in the movie." "No, but it's different if it's some guy's phone. In the movie they color-correct and make everything look pretty. On the phone it's just like: Bam! We have a shot of your bum." "That we're going to sell to TMZ." "Right." "I don't believe Lindsay Lohan is suing you. What a bitch." "It's ok. It's just par for the course." "What?" "It's par for the course." "What does that mean?" "It means it's expected. It's normal. It's just what you would expect the outcome to be." "Par for the course." "Right. It's from golf." "I've never played golf. The clubs are too big for me." "You need a chair to play table tennis!" "Shorty!" "I'm not short, I'm vertically challenged." "There's a difference?" "Ah, lol, go ahead, laugh. Have some fun at my expense. It's nothing new. It's par for the course. Am I using that right?" "Yes." "See? It's par for the course. You fuckers are lucky I was lonely today." "How could you be lonely? With your man." "He's working. He happens to be writing a book. Something you slags will never do." "What's it about?" "It's about me and the st★rchild. How we meet, the adventures we go through. And it features Lindsay Lohan, of course, because she's suing me, as discussed. You're not allowed to write books about real people, apparently." "Even if they're fiction." "Well, I contend that you can write real people into your books, fiction books, and it's ok, because writers have to be able to say whatever they want to say, by free speech and everything. But Lohan, the real Lindsay Lohan, sees it differently. She thinks she's a protected entity about which no one can say anything, even fictionally. Hence the motherfucking law suit." "What's your obsession with Lindsay Lohan anyway?" "What do you mean?" "Well, you imagine this law suit between you and her, fantasize about that as a way to meet her. It seems to me you're just obsessed with the star, in a creepy, stalkerish way." "But I have my st★rchild. What would I need Lindsay Lohan for?" "You admit that if the st★rchild was real she would be Lindsay Lohan, so there." "So there? What, are we five?" "Defend yourself." "I don't have to defend myself." "You like Lindsay Lohan, admit it." "A lot of people like Lindsay Lohan. I just happen to be penning a book." "Are you obsessed?" "No." "Didn't you used to have a similar fascination with actress Julia Stiles, pretending she had contacted you via the internet, etc.?" "I remember that, the Julia Stiles thing." "You had a thing for Julia Stiles." "I did. It's true. I wrote her into art I was making at the time, paintings." "So this is just something you do with famous women? Write them into your art as a way of becoming close to them, since no other avenue of closeness is available?" "I guess I do." "Don't you think that's kind of sad and pathetic?" "It could be. So you're saying: even the st★rchild is a form of hero worship and I should look at that?" My therapist nodded. "So you mean: you don't think it's healthy for me to spend all of my time having pretend relationships with female movie stars? Is that what you mean?" "Maybe. I'm just trying to understand what it is you do, so that we can discuss it. The choice of what to do is yours." "Well I choose..I mean if I collapse all my star relationships my book is kind of through, so, I choose that the st★rchild shall remain, in all her shit/glory. And I'll leave LiLo up to LiLo. If she keeps suing me, I'll continue to try to relate to her interpersonally, to use the lawsuit as a way to come into contact with her. If she doesn't sue me, then I'll dismantle my relationship construct with her, and stop thinking about her altogether. Are there any other stars we need to deal with?" "You tell me." "I think that's it, but I might have some hidden relationships in there somewhere, ones I don't know about, those might pop up at the least convenient moment. I'll keep an eye out." "See that you do." "Are we done now? I feel like you're interrogating me." "I guess we'll save Alt Lit for next time." "I guess so. Goodbye." Alt Lit was yet a thorn in my side. I tried to reach out to one of its minor members, extended a courtesy, and was completely ignored. It left a sour taste in my mouth. Bitch. You try to be nice to someone (while they're hurting) and they don't even say thank you. I guess it's to be expected. My problem is I expect everybody to act like me: to return courtesy, etc. Etc. Etc. Etc. I had a dream about pizza last night. That I was eating pizza, holding it on the underside of my left arm and scooping it into my mouth. Then I was at camp with a bunch of old kids from my church, and I was remarking how long it had been since I'd been to camp. That was my dream. Unremarkable. Sometimes you get the st★rchild, sometimes you get camp. My snot has been forming in a new configuration since I started meditating. It used to gather right in the middle of the nostril plate. Now it gathers, at a slower pace, in the top/back of the nostril plate. It makes picking my nose more difficult, as the snot is harder to reach since it's further back. But it means I have to pick/blow less frequently, and I've settled into a rhythm of doing snot rockets in the morning into the sink and then I'm pretty much good for the rest of the day. That's an improvement for me. I used to have to attend to my nose more often. Now it's pretty much set. It pretty much does its own thing. But I do have mucous gathering at the back of my throat, which is very difficult to swallow, 'cause I can't get a grip on it. It just sits back there, stuck to my throat, while I try to swallow. I'm listening to House of Pain, Jump Around while I write this. That and Lady GaGa. As I type on my laptop. Ass exposed, st★rchild having just sucked me off, I pull up my pants and go downstairs. I get my laptop and go back upstairs. I walk downstairs again. Then upstairs. Then downstairs. Then upstairs. Then I get stuck in an infinite loop and the book can't continue, we have to stop here, thank you for reading but there has been a technical issue which we are working quickly to resolve. St★rchild sticks her finger up my butt. I'm embarrassed that when she pulls it out in front of Kenzie that it'll have shit on it, and I don't want them to see my shit. It's ok for them to see my cock, it's not ok for them to see my shit. It's personal. So st★rchild fingers me for a while and then pulls her finger out. I can't tell from the way it feels whether there's shit on it or not. It always feels like it does, even when it's not messy. I don't ask, I don't look, I just lie there with my ass exposed to Kenzie and friends. St★rchild just sucked me off. If there's shit on her finger it's ok. She can wash it off, or lick it, I don't care. Sometimes she just wipes her finger on my skin if there's just a little bit of shit on it. We saw the inauguration today on TV. There was a poet, I guess he's the national poet. It was nice but you'd never consider him a serious poet. It was too nice. And too plain. No mis-use of language. No challenge. But the country clapped and smiled and said his poetry was wonderful, even when all the real poets knew it sucked. Penny Goring was a real poet, even though she was Alt Lit. For all I knew I was Alt Lit. No one could ever tell if it was all sycophants or if it would stand up to time. But I didn't think it would, didn't think anyone would be remembering Alt Lit in ten years. But I'm no historian, who knows. I guess it depends on who you ask. Ask Steve Roggenbuck, he'd probably say Alt Lit is the sun and the stars. Or he'd slip you some video of people in costumes bouncing around like idiots and claim this was the biggest "boost" he had gotten in a long time. Ask someone from the traditional book world, they'd have no idea that Alt Lit ever existed. My fear is being included in this group that I have openly criticized. But I've never seen any "prose" writers included in them, just "poets." So I'm probably safe. Is that shit on your finger, child? I imagine it dripping hot onto my back, plopping off her finger like ice cream. If you're stuck in a literature class reading this then I apologize, you've been swindled by your professor and me. You'll have to analyze every shit reference. You'll have to go research who the hell Steve Roggenbuck is, because he's a flash in the pan who you've likely never heard of, whose only trick is swapping homophones and spelling life "lief". Bravo, mister. I'm sick of these writers on twitter. Penny Goring and Sarah E. Melville are the only ones I can stand. Other than that you've got people who are too hip for their own good or people who are too campy to be relevant. I'm alone out there. No one is writing like me. There is no one to read me yet. I am hoping you will be born soon. It's just unjustified ego and idiot-worship. No one's doing anything real. Is there shit on my ass or not? St★rchild? She sticks her finger back in. Must not be shit on it. She squirms her finger in my ass and I can feel her fingernail. She likes it in there, warm and squishy, and I know exactly what it feels like because I've put my fingers up there, explored. Even used a small dildo in my ass one time, that was fine, I had never had a real dick in my ass and didn't want to, mostly because I don't like men. Men have let me down more than women have. Women have let me down too. But men have let me down more. That's why I prefer not to have dick in my ass. I'm prejudiced against men, don't want to have anything to do with them, sexual or otherwise. They've been managers I had to work for before my writing got going, always assholes. They've been my father, a grand disappointment. They've been preachers at churches I've attended, always hypocrites. They've been best friends, who go crazy or betray you in some other way. Anyway I've had my fill of guys. And stereotypical gentlemen I have no love for. Football, sex-obsession (that isn't really sex obsession but rather a way to self-hate and woman-hate while briefly copulating), everything macho, it sucks. I would rather hang around women, with all their particular flaws. It's my preferred gender. I play women in role-playing games because that's what I like to look at. I can't imagine playing a man. Does this mean I have a confused sexuality, that I want to be a woman? I would never consider reconstructive surgery, so I don't think I really want to be a woman. But I like to play with the idea in my mind, pretend I am a woman when I'm masturbating, that I'm playing with a vagina instead of a dick, that I'm fucking my own vagina with my own dick, lying on top of myself and lying below. So I'm not exactly cis. But I think you get the picture. Playing with maxi-pads. Wearing women's underwear to masturbate in. I love that little pad that goes against their lips. Love to rub myself with it, to rub myself with the lacy parts of women's underwear. Love to be ass-fingered by a woman. There's the dream part of this story and there's the real part. When do we range from one into the other? Does it matter? It's all a dream to you. Seeing st★rchild lick a dollop of poop off her finger, gag, and swallow. She's better at it that I am. It makes me throw up. But I do it anyway, throwing up vomit and shit into the toilet, gagging tight against nothingness, nothing else to throw up. Then I'm rinsing with water and using mouthwash, then brushing my teeth and using mouthwash again. Then the thought of it making me gag. St★rchild perfectly serene, swallowed a dollop of shit. She's a badass. I can't match her. Pumping my asshole with her finger, pump, pump. I'm looking at Kenzie and she's looking at me. My dick hardens against the bed. I reach out and touch Kenzie's hand. She licks my middle finger. "Do you like that?" That's st★rchild, pumping me. "Ooh, you got hard again. Do you need it more?" St★rchild grabs my dick with her other hand, starts rubbing. I'm looking Kenzie in the eye and a tear comes out of mine, as st★rchild has stuck her tongue out and rimmed me around the asshole. Kenzie pets my hand. I look at her girlfriends. They're late teens at the oldest. I want to fuck them all. I imagine what's underneath their clothes and I would fuck them all if it was ok with the st★rchild. I don't want to offend her by asking, though. What if it makes her think I don't like her? St★rchild is the best of any of them, for sure. I'd rather have her than go through a quick fuck with any of Kenzie's girls. But a quick fuck with Kenzie's girls would be nice. No one seems to be making a move. It's just me half-naked wrapped around the st★rchild, getting my asshole serviced. I take my hand back from Kenzie and start typing. "Dear Lindsay Lohan's Lawyer," I begin. But hasn't that kid been lying here the whole time, at my feet, as I'm wrapped around the st★rchild, and I toe her. Poke poke. Poke. She coos. I sit up and move around to where the baby is. "Can I pick her up?" "Sure. Here." The st★rchild picks up Olivia and hands her to me. I cradle her. I'm looking at her face. She's awake, alert, quiet. "She's so good right now." "She is. She's being so good." It's hard to explain it, but holding her gives me this feeling of I'll-kill-anyone-who-tries-to-harm-her. It's this primitive feeling, it just comes upon me. And what the feeling is, literally, is a call to defend, to the death, this child. From any attacker. I've never felt this feeling before. I've held babies before, but when I was younger, like a kid. This time around it's different. It's like I was meant to hold this child. Is it a father instinct? Imagine if this kid was mine! Wouldn't I feel this even more intensely? I struggled for a half an hour over whether to use the word "intensely" or "intently" in that last sentence. What if this kid was mine? What would I feel then. Then I was having urges to have children with the st★rchild, which was a foolish idea since she was such a rolling stone, it would never work, would it? It wouldn't. Why am I thinking this way? Does it bother you when I switch tenses in the middle of a thought? I think it is divine. Overdue. I fret over punctuation. Two sentences? One sentence with a comma? The rare semicolon? An em dash? Comma before a quotation? That's what keeps me up at night. That's what keeps me tossing and turning. I'll debate a comma, debate a period. "Hey, little Olivia." "Call her Olive." "Hey, Olive." "I think I'm gonna call her Olive." "Sounds nice. Olive. Baby little Olive. You're just lying there. You can see me, but what are you thinking? Are you dreaming of what you're going to be when you grow up?" "Don't overpressure her." "Ok, forget I said anything Olive, I just like holding you!" I'm putting my finger in her hand. She grips it. "You should write a will." "What?" "A will. Child, you need a will, now that you've got Olive. Put her down to get whatever you want to give her. Make sure she's taken care of. You know. A will." "I'll talk to Vincent about it." "Vincent?" "My lawyer." "Oh. I'm'onna put you down now, Olive. Sweet Olive! I wonder if you'll like olives. Good baby. So nice and quiet, we like it when you're quiet. Here you go." I hand the baby to the child and she holds her for a while. "Do you wanna nurse? See how big my breasts have gotten!" "Yeah!" "That's because they're filled with milk for my baby. Yeah. Good baby. You hungry? She's not hungry. It'll be here for you later if you want it, ok Olive?" The st★rchild lays her baby down and strokes her forehead with a finger. "Don't they give all your money to the closest relative?" "Yeah but you should still have a will." What if there's no more gross stuff in this book? Will you still read it? If I stop talking about poop and eating poop and all that, will I still hold your interest? I am insanely curious about such things. What if the entire rest of the book is the word "what" repeated over and over? Will you turn the pages very quickly and finish your reading ahead of schedule? What is the difference between a book filled with copies of the same word over and over and a book with a great diversity of words? What makes something readable? How much diversion can a reader take? How little sense? How much plot is too little? Too much? Is there a sweet spot of randomness that just "works" for people in a certain language? Do you need to feel the author had a plan? Does it matter to you how many times an author revised their work? Am I just buying clothes for my grandmother's funeral? Does she have a will? Am I in it? We searched the house for hours and couldn't find her. She's still missing, and her car is parked in a different spot than the one where she always parks. Is it a sign? Something wrong with her brain? Did she just wander off down the street? Will someone find her? Return her? What movies do you remember having seen? Are there some that are specially important to you? Why? Did you ever see the cops and robbers flick Heat? Why would that appeal to me, guys with guns robbing things. Why is that one of my favorite movies, aesthetically? Did Michael Mann exist just for me, so I could watch his movie? Who is in charge of who? As a consumer, don't I have incredible power to demand the service of what I like? Or is it just an illusion of control, and I'm really the slave. I think it is the latter. When you write a will are you "putting it out there" that you'll die soon? I saw a TV character the other day who reminded me of one of my first girlfriends. I wish I had had sex sooner. It was just her face and her hair, they looked similar. When I see the TV actress I think about having sex with that old friend. We had it good. For a while. Isn't that how it always goes? Things are good for a while. Then, predictably, after a while, everything falls apart. It's the shape of life. We all, institutions, animals, people, die. We have it good for a while, though, and you better enjoy that part while it's happening. I'm glad I'm not involved in any cults. I'm too individual for that, too strong. I've been on the same medicine now for six months and I'm doing fine. Last time my doctor thought I was doing well enough that he didn't need to see me for three months. This time it's five months. Doing well isn't something I'm familiar with. Things are always falling apart for me. They have been since high school. Now my writing's going good and I have st★rchild. That's all anyone needs, is a little st★rchild. Forget that she's eight or nine years old. Forget that it's probably illegal for me to be dating her. She's mine right now, and I know it won't last forever, but it's good right now and I'm enjoying it while it lasts. Her pussy is so sweet. And I can relate to her, in a major way. Something about her crass, jilted, jaded self is perfect for me. She doesn't set the mood too high. She knows things fall apart. She's seen more falling apart than I have, given her career. She knows people aren't always telling you the truth. She's used to people trying to take advantage of her. So when someone comes along who isn't, it's oh so nice. I know I am nice for her, too. She likes me for her particular reasons. Whatever they are, they seem to be sufficient, for she lays spread for me whenever I want to do it to her, she speaks to me openly, she lets me hold her child. "St★rchild." "Yeah?" I almost ask if Kenzie and friends could leave the room but I don't. They've already seen me get sucked off, I guess they can listen to this. "I'm feeling some love right now. For Olivia. And also for you. I know that might sound silly—" "No! It doesn't sound silly. I have love for you, too. I've felt it from the moment you were holding my hair off my face when you were washing me. I love you, too." "I love you. Wow." "It's good." "It is good. I'm not trying to make too big a deal out of it, but I'm saying if you're planning to break up with me, know that that would really hurt me. And I know that eventually it will have to happen, but—" "Don't worry, I'm not breaking up with you." "I'm not breaking up with you either, I just. Anyway." "Aww," Kenzie said. Her girls were both asleep. "That's sweet. You two are so cute together. You three are so cute together. Can we sit out by the pool?" "Wake them two up, we'll go down there. Did you bring bathing suits?" "We did." "Well change and meet me down there. Do you want to bring Olive or do you want me to bring her?" "You bring her." I grab my laptop. "Do you have a swimsuit?" "No, I'm just going to swim naked." "Me too. Or in these. Are you wearing boxers?" "Briefs." "You can wear those. Or feel free to go naked it doesn't matter. Don't worry about your Lindsay Lohan thing, we'll get you fixed up." "I think I might be obsessed with her." "Are you dangerous?" "I don't know." "I would say you're not but I don't know, with you. You just might be." "Thank you." "Go on, I'll meet you down there. Check on Lancôme." So I go downstairs, pulling up my pants, and Lancôme is dutifully sitting in one of the comfy chairs and making calls. "I think I got you a nanny," she says to me. "Good," I say. "Tell st★rchild. She's coming down." "How was your lunch?" "Excellent. Great cheesesteak. Thanks." "No problem. And don't thank me." "We're going swimming, do you want to come?" "I'll sit out there with you." I was looking at Lancôme's body trying to see beneath her jeans, but it didn't work. She was cloaking her pussy, had it on lock. I couldn't get anywhere with this one. She was all business. "Lancôme?" "What?" "Nevermind. I'll see you outside." I set up a chair and sat down with my laptop. I took my shirt off. St★rchild coming outside with the baby. St★rchild talking with Lancôme about the nanny. St★rchild reminding Lancôme that she needed final approval of the nanny. St★rchild accepting a response from Lancôme. St★rchild coming outside with the baby. St★rchild yelling inside for Lancôme to get a blanket. St★rchild arranging the blanket, folded multiple times, so that Olive could lie on it. St★rchild putting the blanket too close to the pool. St★rchild laying Olive down on the blanket. St★rchild telling Lancôme where to sit (next to the blanket, so she could watch Olive). St★rchild nodding at me, still in just her panties, standing godlike by the swimming pool. That's the girl I fuck. That is where I put my dick. He goes with her. She belongs to me, right now. She is where I cum, in whom I cum. That's my cum receptacle. She's nothing but a cum receptacle! She holds my cum. I love that eight-year-old. Her tiny vagina. Perfect for my virgin-killer penis. Her little ass, her asshole, so cute. Her slender arms, little hands. She gets wrapped so tight around me, makes me so hard. I fit in her like a slug. Snug. Bumped right into her. Knocked her on the ground. She shit all up her back. I am going to eat her shit next time, do it right. Have her shit in my mouth while I'm eating her butthole, squirt hot out of her right into my mouth. Catch her. Capture her. Shit all in my eyes. Licking it. Maybe I'll throw up on her. Then she can masturbate and cum, with all our liquids everywhere. I need to pee in her face soon, in her eyes. I miss that. We haven't done that in a couple of days. Here comes Kenzie and her girls. They're wearing swimsuits. And I want to fuck each one of them. Mostly I want to fuck Lancôme, because she's the most off-limits. Slip those jeans off, stick my dick in. Maybe st★rchild would be ok with it, maybe I should just ask her. Do you mind if I fuck your assistant? Lancôme, would you like to fuck? Prob'ly best that way for everyone concerned. Kenzie, sitting at the edge of the pool. Kenzie's girls, sitting next to her. Kenzie, standing up. Kenzie, jumping in with two fingers pinching her nose. A tiny splash. Imagine the difficulty of finding someone really interesting to talk to, if you're really interesting. The more interesting you are, the harder it is to find people to talk to, people that are interesting to you. St★rchild was interesting to me. She had seen things I hadn't, been places (in her career) that I knew nothing of. Even though she was only eight, we had great conversations. It was just luck that brought us together because we're, both of us, not the person that the other would normally talk to. She has her crew and I pretty much live in solitary, a few friends that are only accessible by phone anymore. It's hard to meet either of us. I'm a hard person to meet. I keep people away on purpose. I don't want to meet new people, not in general, so when one comes they have to "burst through" to get inside the bubble. My penis is tingling as I write this. I tried to masturbate before but couldn't cum due to psych meds. Considering knocking off the antidepressant for a few days to see if I could get off. My penis is tingling. If I had a pussy it would be throbbing. Does it bother that people masturbate to the live performance act of writing? Is it weird? This is a question I got from a reader earlier, on this live document. No, not weird. Wonderful. If your pussy is throbbing then touch it, rub it against something, like your hand. Let's all masturbate to live documents, it's very literary. Better than porn. If you like scatalogical narration then come on down. I can see you in the live users list and you chat to me that you're masturbating while I write. Then get yourself off, if you aren't on psych medication. But you are, I know because we talked about it. I mused on your twitter account to get inspiration for transgressional things to write and you masturbated to my writing. No, not weird. Ideal. Not something I had imagined when starting live writing. But perfect. Quick. Let me write something that has scatological appeal so that if you're reading this section of the document you can stay throbbing. I could tell you about the girlfriend I had who picked my nose. This is before st★rchild. She used to stick her fingers up my nose and dig out whatever she could find and eat it. She complimented me on how smooth the inside of my nostrils are. There's a tense change mid-sentence! Suck on that, pitiful literary agent who can't handle a document in two tenses. What am I playing to, an audience of five year olds with sticks up their ass? I'm just kidding. I love five year olds. Does that scare you? Is five too young to touch? She would eat my snot. It's good for your immune system. (No, it is. Look it up.) Just because no one does it doesn't mean it's not a good idea. You've got to get out of your mainstream ways of thinking, try something new. Doesn't have to be scat. You could try simply sticking your finger up your asshole. A nice easy one to begin with. Get some private time. A private place. Just push your finger up there, feel around. Good! Good! You're doing it! "St★rchild, they're doing it!" "Who is doing what?" The baby is next to her on the blanket by the pool. "They're sticking their fingers up their assholes." "Who is?" "My readers. They're telling me about it on live chat." "That's great, baby!" St★rchild is so supportive. "That's great. Keep up the great work!" See how positive she is! Just had a baby and has all that energy for me. Will have to lick her pussy later, specially-much, to reward her for being so nice to me. Stick my fingers inside her and rub her g-spot while I suck on her clit, make her cum real nice. "St★rchild?! I'm going to lick your pussy later." Kenzie's girls turn and look at me. "That's great, darling, my pussy will be ready for you!" "St★rchild?!" "Yes?" "I'm going to make you cum." "Mmm. Good baby. Have good writing. We're right here if you need anything. Write me something I'll be proud of." Do you see how supportive she is? She's like mega-supportive. Now I'll get to work on a story that will really make her proud. What would st★rchild like? Probably a story where she was the star. I don't know if I can do that, but she could be a main character anyway. It could start in Los Angeles. No. Start in New York. We open on st★rchild, crossing the street, she gets knocked down and shits herself when she hits the concrete. Then I come along. Yeah. Make it about shit. Make shit be a major character. The themes? That there are different types of love, that love isn't just expressed one way. Is that right? They say you should know your themes. What should I have as plot? Could it be about the baby? In the beginning he hardly wants anything to do with it and by the end he takes his place as a father? That could work. Then they could discuss their sexual abuse in the past and he could explain it as there are just different ways different families show love, and that's how we do it in ours. The end. What do you think? I might do that. I don't really want to have a plot. I want it to be flat, like a painting. Sort of the Jackson Pollock version of fiction writing. That's it. Say it like that. It will make sense to people. People need simple ways of understanding things. You have to have a tag line. The Jackson Pollock of fiction. Simple. Easy to remember. Not sure it's entirely accurate, but that's ok, a tag line doesn't have to be entirely accurate, it just has to be catchy. Hold me and touch my genitals. Isn't that what you're basically saying? Attend me, touch my genitals. Make them squirt. Replace my body pillow. Cuddle. Then fucking. Cuddle. Then fucking. Cuddle, then fuck. Cuddle, then fuck. Cuddle, fuck. Cuddle, fuck. Does it bother you to read this without paragraph breaks? I don't really give a fuck what you answered to that. Read it anyway bitch! It's supposed to simplify the style. Remove extra elements. Get rid of italics. Make it so you can store it in a text file. One line, no breaks. That's the idea. All in one breath. That's what we call it. All in one breath. Breathe. In. Out. Breathe. Do you mind if I am famous? St★rchild to me. No. I don't mind. Why would I mind? You could. Some people do. I don't mind. It just means you have interesting stories to tell me. And money to pay for your meal. Do you mind if I'm not famous? You're famous. Writers are never truly famous, no one worships us like they worship movie stars. That's because people are shallow. It's ok, I don't want to be worshipped. Well that's good, because I do. See? You can have a conversation without quotation marks. Who needs them? You still understand what's going on. St★rchild and I are discussing fame, between a movie star and a writer. I love that she's famous. That I can see her picture on a magazine and then see her face right next to me, in the real. That she's in the movies and in my bed. Or, that I'm in her bed. Technically. Imagine if you had a puzzle of a sentence, punctuation and all, and you had to work it out so that people could read, and then you got it! It came to you, exactly how to type to produce the proper sentence (with punctuation) so that people could read. Imagine if that was you. Imagine if writers were famous, if people cared enough about reading to elevate writers to the status of movie stars. It's just not where we're going. And maybe writers are too introverted to be stars, star children. But I don't think that's necessarily true across the board. I think there are all kinds of star children, all kinds of stars waiting to be born. Someone was masturbating to my book earlier. Isn't that great? All books should be live-written, free to view while the author is working on them, then closed off once you have to pay for them. I think the reason so many literary agents have nothing to say to me is that their jobs are falling apart, that there is no need for them anymore, with self-publishing. But how can you make money as a writer? I've not to this point understood how. I've written seven books and made a grand total of nine dollars and twenty-four cents. Hopefully if you're a writer you'll have better luck than me. My water glass is empty. I'm gonna lick that pussy so good. She's gonna shudder when she cums. You've never seen an eight year old cum like this. Yeah, critics, you're right, the eight year old thing is just something I can wave around to draw attention to myself. It's obviously fake. She's not really eight. Eight-year-olds can't have babies. Anatomically, you couldn't fuck an eight year old. Unless you're a really sick rapist who forces your cock where it don't belong, like an eight-year-old pussy. But she's eight in my story, dammit, because that's what I want. She's eight, alright? She's eight. Eight or nine. Something like that. She had a baby and now she's breastfeeding her. She's an international movie star and she likes me the most. Her aging writer. Her belly is growing back to its regular size, shrinking down. St★rchild is into the exercising. Aside from fucking. And oh, the look of her abdominals while we're fucking and she's on top of me, or on the bottom and curled up. You can see her muscles, it's hot. She's one big pack of muscles, from her tongue to her pussy. You can look at her like an animal that you might eat, and the muscles stick out of course. I would rip out her abdominals and eat them first, barbecue them and eat that pack of muscle with a nice sauce. But yeah, when you look at them while you're fucking it's awesome. Clenching up, tightening, delineations between the individual muscles. Kenzie's girls don't have that, they're soft in the bellies. I'd still fuck them, but. Kenzie and friends and st★rchild all talking at the other end of the pool. Baby Olive on her stomach, trying to lift her head. Perfect California day. Lancôme bringing in a new woman, I assume the potential nanny, for st★rchild to look at. Parading her around the house, even though that has nothing to do with the job. St★rchild just wanted to show off her house. We're in Venice Beach, by the way, at one of the nice houses up front by the ocean? That's some setting for you. We'll try to throw in some plot up here in a minute. Maybe some theme. The nice houses by the beach. St★rchild's front door faces the ocean. Or maybe that's the back door. This pool is sort of off to the side. It's a wide house, it must have cost her millions. I mean, literally, millions. My apartment in New York is two thousand a month. That's the cheapest I could find. But I live nothing like this, like a st★rchild. She makes real money, as much money as I've ever made, in one picture. More. I just added a comma. A couple sentences back. It needed another one. "oh, shit. thats so hot! is it weird to think about someone masturbating to you performing the act of writing? Just curious." That's exactly what someone said. I say no! It's not weird. It's wonderful! I masturbate to some pretty weird things. Pictures of girls with shit on them. Rothko paintings. To each their own. "Do you have chapstick?" "Yeah, do you want some?" "Please." This is st★rchild asking me from the other side of the pool. I always keep some in my right pocket. I get up and go to her. I kneel over her, get the chapstick out and apply it to her lips. Her lips sweep back and forth as I apply it. They're like Lolita's lips when she wipes her mouth on Humbert's shirt. Fat and beautiful. It turns me on to put the chapstick on her like this, to look at the texture of her lips and see my hand applying it. My dick gets hard. St★rchild notices. "Is this turning you on?" "Yes." "You're so sweet! Meet our new nanny, this is Corinne, Corinne right?" "Right." "Corinne, meet my boyfriend." "Hi." "Hi." "Corinne's going to be taking care of Olive when I can't. Corinne, how's it going so far?" "Going ok." "You seem to be doing great. Nice to meet you." "You know you can sit down here with us." "I prefer my loner-style," I say, and I head back down to the other side of the pool, my boner making it awkward to walk. I sit down and I'm watching Corinne play with the baby. They hired her on the spot. St★rchild's got Lancôme calling all sorts of people, Corinne's playing with the baby, and now she focuses her energy on Kenzie and the girls, getting in the pool with them and standing neck-deep in water, talking, splashing, standing close and making secrets in one another's ear. I feel like I'm a spy, documenting the secret activities of a child star, how she operates. Olive starts to cry. Corinne puts her up against her shoulder. Later I see her changing a diaper. Now st★rchild doesn't have to do that..simple! What would I do with a personal assistant? My life isn't busy enough to need one. I make my own phone calls, and I rarely do that. Maybe if I had a personal chef that would be nice. I wonder how much she's paying these people. Eight dollars an hour? More? I imagine the tiny crack pipe that would be needed if a baby smoked crack, imagine it in her mouth, the baby randomly inhaling swafts of smoke, getting high on the crack. It's been over a year since I smoked crack. Try to keep that to a minimum. It was an accident, really, I got in a car with a guy and thought he had powder but all he had was crack, so I went along with it, spent all my cash, wild night. I've a weakness for hanging out with drug addicts and homeless people. I meet them easily, they can tell I'm a friendly person to talk to, just by looking at me. That I'm a kindred spirit. And I am. I don't judge, I have compassion for most people, I treat new people I meet with respect, act as though they're of high ascent, and unless they show me otherwise, that's where they stay. I am obsessed with status. My psychiatrist pointed it out. It's from my childhood, I can't help it. It's from being abused by my dad. I just sent my dad an email. A pathetic attempt. Things between us are so broken they'll never be repaired. Anyway I used to do drugs with homeless people. I used to be a homeless person, for a little while. Maybe it's because I'm mentally ill, and I don't fit into the same little boxes as normal people, that I've had such wild experiences. But you don't feel like you're on the same page, anymore, with people who have never experienced the things you have. I don't exactly want to hang out on facebook with a bunch of high school friends who finished school and had babies and bought houses in nice neighborhoods with their boring spouses. I'm broken out of that, and it takes someone like a st★rchild for me to get excited anymore. I can't just fuck old high school girlfriends (or their equivalents). Maybe the scat shit seems weird, maybe it seems gross, but to me its expansive, it's breaking the mold, it's showing that you're against society, which I most definitely am. I am attracted to those who are against society. In its own way, the controversies that the star child was so well publicised for, were against society. Maybe in her case she wasn't against society, but society was against her. Always scrutinized, could never make the right decision (to anyone else's satisfaction), involved in drugs as much as any eight year old, but villainized for it on websites (unlike the typical eight year old). Even her age was counter cultural. She was young even for a child star, or her fame had come on earlier than the arc of most child stars, she was making movies at four. Starring in them at six. Had even done commercials as an infant, stuff she'd never remember, but could watch the tapes of later, with her parents. She was always a star, never knew anything different. I was daydreaming about taking her from behind, bent over her and our hands in alignment, spasming into her. More people arrived at the pool. St★rchild could see that I was working and she didn't introduce them. They went into the house and changed into their swimsuits, and it was late afternoon by now. I would socialize in a minute, just a few more thoughts. Some random thought of Lady Gaga. Fear about the Lohan suit. Thoughts that my whole life was just one giant piece of performance art, that none of this was really me, but just me pretending to be something that I thought was interesting. You never want to be boring, we are bred on attention. A thousand tiny cameras clammering to capture you, in every medium imaginable. Dear god, make my tweets interesting. Get me followers. We can't stand when no one responds. We are afraid to unfollow even people we hate who pay attention to us. And st★rchild was the worst offender on this, splashing around the pool topless, wearing only a white pair of panties, and I could see she was rubbing her nose in pantomime to one of the girls who had arrived, and the other girl rubbed her nose back. They were thinking of cocaine, and now that st★rchild wasn't pregnant, she could do it. The return. The girl she was talking to got out of the pool and went to a guy she came with, who was still dressed in a suit. Wet, she pressed herself against him and was talking softly, I imagined, asking him for coke. I was right, he came out of his pocket with a tiny bag which he handed her, and st★rchild was rushing for the stairs. Dripping, getting out of the pool. Going to a side table with the girl, and it was getting dark now. St★rchild and the girl kneeling at the table, then flinging off extra water from their hands, then opening the bag, then leaning forward snorting lines they had cut with Lancôme's credit card, or maybe it was st★rchild's credit card that Lancôme was holding, I don't know. I decided to go over. I closed my laptop, left it on the chair, and put my shirt back on. "St★rchild, what are you doing?" "What does it look like we're doing? Do you want some?" "Sure." "It's really good. This is Jess." "Hi Jess." "Hi." "Oh. That is good. Thanks." "You don't have to thank me. Thank Jess." "Thank you Jess." "Hee-hee!" "How's Corinne doing?" "She's doing well. Olive is asleep." "Aww. Poor child, she was tired." "Yeah, she's napping. Don't you want to swim?" "If you are." "No, I'm done. I'm gonna go put some clothes on, do you want to come with me?" "Yeah." We start for the house door. Then st★rchild turns. "Jess. You coming?" Upstairs, Jess and I sat on the bed while st★rchild stripped off her soaking panties and tossed them on the floor. She wiped off with a towel and looked through dresses. "Do you want to fuck Jess?" "What?" "Do you two want to fuck? Do you Jess?" Jess and I look at each other, and there's this progression of looks. It goes: why the fuck is st★rchild asking us this, I don't want to fuck him/her. To: weird, I wonder what it would be like to just fuck this interesting stranger just for the fun of it, is this what st★rchild does all the time? To: let's get busy and take those clothes off! But we talk about it further. "Do you have a condom?" "I have one," st★rchild says. And she goes to the bedside table and pulls out a condom. She tosses it on the bed. I lean forward to kiss Jess and she leans forward too. Soon I have my hands on her breasts and she's working my dick and I'm thinking it might be nice to fuck someone older than eight. St★rchild sits naked on the edge of the bed, watching us, holding a Lomography camera. I'm lifting Jess's dress and she's not wearing any panties. I stick my finger inside her. She has her eyes closed. I lay her back on the bed and st★rchild is taking pictures of us now with her Lomography camera and I stick my dick in Jess's pussy and it feels great. She has hair around her pussy, unlike st★rchild, and I miss the feel of an adult. Slightly larger pussy, not soap suds tight, but honey pot tight. I could cum in an instant with this girl. She sits up and then we're holding each other, and then we start kneeling and we're holding each other's butts to keep us together, and I'm fucking up into her. I put one hand behind her head. She holds onto my butt while I tweak her nipple with my other hand. St★rchild snaps a picture, advances the film. Where she gets film processed in Los Angeles I have no idea. She probably sends it out to another country. "Do you want to be on top?" "Yeah, why not." Her cheeks are blushing and she says it with her eyes half-closed. We readjust, and she's doing these shallow little pumps on me, and I have my hands on her hips. She leans forward. I'm pumping up from below. "Do that," she says. So I do it more. She leans forward further. She has her hands one on my shoulder one on my neck and she's looking me directly in the face. I raise my eyebrows a little, to ask her if she's going to cum. She smiles and nods, and then she's going really fast. Pump pump pump. Then "Oh! Oh!" and she's cumming, gripping me really tight and half-choking me with her one hand. I'm pulling her down and rubbing my hands all over her back and her ass and grabbing her neck and her hair and saying "Did you cum?" and she's saying "Yes! Oh, how very nice." She's sweating a little. "Do you want to cum now?" And I'm nodding. I lay her back on the pillows and turn her over. She has this pleased look on her face. I pick up her butt and the middle of her body and kneel behind her. Her butt is sticking directly up in the air. I lean over her and put my penis in. St★rchild snaps a picture. I push. Push. "This ok?" Jess's eyes wide open. "Yes." So we fuck and I cum in her butt. Well, inside a condom inside her butt. When I pull it out there is absolutely no shit on it. I take off the condom and Jess puts me in her mouth, licking off the rest of the cum. St★rchild lies down on the bed and gets real close to Jess's face/my dick. She takes a picture. The flash goes off. Then she gets up and forgets about us and she's standing at her enormous closet picking out a dress. Jess is sucking my dick and I'm lying there staring at st★rchild, in admiration. The Lomography camera's still on the bed. I pick it up and take a picture of st★rchild. I feel like I could live here forever. With people who don't care about sex—who don't think it's that big of a deal. It's something we do, often, naturally, as part of our life. St★rchild doesn't expect me to be monogamous. I don't expect her to. She can fuck whoever she wants. It's cool. I don't know how I'd feel watching her do it with someone else, but maybe I'll get to find out. She's her own woman. Or, her own girl, in her case. Still I prefer sex with the st★rchild. I prefer that shallow cunt, the tightness, the soap suds. And I like her red hair, the waviness of it, the way it sticks to her forehead when she gets sweaty. "Jess, do you want to meet us downstairs?" That was st★rchild. Jess goes. She's putting her dress back on as she walks out the door. "Did you like that?" "Yes?" "Did you have a good orgasm?" "It was ok." "Don't lie." "It was great. She's got this—" "What?" "Well, more of an adult pussy, with hair and everything. I like yours but I guess I kind of missed fucking adult pussy, you know?" "I know," st★rchild says. "Adult pussy is beautiful. I want mine to be like that someday." "You will. Just give it a few years is all, you'll be there. But yours is beautiful. Wonderful. There's something special about child pussy, I know you're not supposed to say that but there is. Yours might be my favorite pussy of all time." "Really?" St★rchild is in my arms. "Yes. Your pussy is magnificent, holy, I love it." We kiss. A nasty, licking, slurping, greedy kiss. A lust kiss. She has her hand on my cock and is stroking it, trying to get me hard. "Can you go again?" "Right now?" "If I put my mouth on you? Can you get hard?" "I don't know. You want to try?" "I'm feeling kind of jealous that you got to fuck her, even though—even though, it was me who suggested it. I want your dick in my mouth. Fuck my mouth." The st★rchild laid down on the bed with her mouth open. "Fuck me." I kneel over her and put my limp dick in her mouth. She closes her mouth around me. I move my cock around inside her mouth and she's licking me with her tongue. I get hard. Then I'm fucking her mouth bent over her body and she's taking it down her throat, lips locked tight around me. The bedroom door is open. Coke is laid out on top of her bedside table. I'm naked, fucking the st★rchild in the mouth, this nubile eight-year-old taking my cock in her mouth, sucking me, licking me, my body huge and hairy in comparison to hers. "Can you come?" she says, and I can barely understand what she's saying, as she's speaking around my dick. "I don't know how I did with Jess—I came through the medicine! Do you believe that?" "I'm jealous," she manages. I hold myself up on one arm and run the other hand through her hair. Someone on the internet just suggested that I be accused of misogyny. I'm surprised I spelled that word right on the first try. I don't know how to handle the idea that I might be a misogynist..do you think it's true? She just made it as a suggestion but she might be right. When I think of misogyny I think of Martin Scorsese delivering a monologue about what a 357 Magnum can do to a woman's pussy. Specifically, she's saying that in Things Said in Dreams I have a female protagonist personifying weakness, indecision, inaction. That's Joan Simon suggesting this. She's a good critic. She says she really liked my novel. And now I have a thirty-something male mouth-fucking an eight-year-old female. What if the st★rchild was male? Where would we be then? I've thought about writing gay fiction just for the hell of it, but I think it would be dishonest, so I don't do it. There's something true to me in this eight-year-old female getting mouthfucked by the "me" character in this book. I can't explain it. I'm just going from the subconscious. I think the analysis is best left up to people like Joan Simon who are really good at analysis. I'm good at knocking shit together, making stuff. I can't help my themes, they're such a part of me it's hard for me to see them. I was just imagining myself beating the shit out of my asshole housemate. But I'm clearing my mind of that, I don't want to think of violence. It's ok if an eight-year-old female, willing, is the victim of statutory rape and violent throat-fucking. And I know the kind of female who will violently object to this storyline, politically-active, uppity women who just love scandal and arguing about something. How's that for misogynist? And I know the kind of female who will love this storyline, like @JanesDearDiary, whose personal history I will not share with you but who understands real abuse, who understands living outside the rules as a way to maximize life and liveliness, who harbors eccentric thought patterns. Did it bother you, the part where his dick is going down her throat? Did that seem violent to you? Do you think it will stretch out the throat of a too-young, too-tender eight year old? Did you remember that he has a virgin-killer penis? That it's not the Magnum of penises, and therefore might be just right for the throat of an eight year old? Does any of that matter to you? =) I think what we're talking about here is the Myth of Decency. The myth that you can be decent, that decency can be real and honest and true, that it can be solid. That it can be anything other than a front. An act. A flimsy role. Close the door when you use the bathroom. Don't fuck your cousins. Stuff like that. When we're animals! We're most primarily wild. Society is temporary. Have you ever heard of an eight year old who got her period? It happens. Children are getting their puberty earlier and earlier. So I ask you to see this story not as surreal, but as a factual possibility. What have I described that cannot really take place? Eating shit? Certainly not. A man being turned on by wearing woman's panty-liners? Certainly not. Everything here is possible. My aim will be by the end of the book convincing all of you that this dream is not only possible, but desirable. Some of you are already hip to the idea and for you this book is old news. The rest of you are reading out of some sense of fascination or obligation, and it is these readers with whom I am most concerned. If you've made it this far you can afford to see this through to the end. I'll try to give you enough breathing room that you can afford to read along. Speaking of breathing room, let's check back in on st★rchild getting her throat fucked by the "me" character.. "Star?" "Yeah?" "I think I'm gonna cum. I am! I'm gonna cum in you, st★rchild, you're gonna make me cum twice in one day." "Just keep fucking." "Huh?" "Keep fucking me." "Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Shit shit shit shit. St★rchild! Star! Star..star. Oh star. Oh my god. St★rchild." She's swallowing my cum, licking her top lip and she blinks at me once very slowly, these doe eyes. I take my dick out of her mouth. She swallows, then licks her bottom lip. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "How was that?" "That was excellent. You made me cum through the medicine. I feel like we've broken through, made a breakthrough, today." "It is a breakthrough. My baby came. All you needed to get you started was a little adult pussy." "It was little alright." "Do you think that's why you came?" "I don't know why I did. I know why I did just now." "Why?" "'Cause your mouth is haaawt." "You like my mouth baby?" "Yeah I do. You need to keep that thing locked up. Don't let anybody else cum in your mouth, ok? Make that a just-between-us thing." "You want exclusive access?" "Yes, exclusive access. Do you want to have sex with other people?" "I want to have sex with everyone." "You don't have to stay with me, you know, I don't expect that of you." "It's ok, baby, I'm not fucking anyone else right now." "I don't want to be unfair to you though, I've discovered I really like fucking your friends." "Ahh, I have some more friends I can introduce you to who would probably like fucking you, too." "Would you?" "Why wouldn't I? I want you to be happy." "I want you to be happy, too." "I am. I like that I can make you cum with my mouth." "And your pussy." "Yes, but not too often, with your medicine. Do you ever think about stopping taking it?" "All the time. If I'm gonna stay out here I need a new psychiatrist." "Take some time tomorrow and get one, I know your medicine is important to you." "Is it. It kinda keeps me sane." "I know, I like you sane. What are you like when you don't take it?" "Wilder. I do crazy things." "Like what?" "Like more drugs, sometimes I want to kill myself, I do crazier art, like write over all the surfaces of walls in my apartment, take down the shower curtain liner and write in fine print all the way across it, up and down, top to bottom, with crazy text. I call people and say crazy things." "Like who?" "Like the NSA." "What's that?" "The National Security Agency? It's part of the government. Spy stuff. Anyway. I do crazy things. I sleep with a lot of people, random people, people you wouldn't expect." "I think I like you sleeping with only me and people I control." "You do, do you?" "Yes. I don't want you sleeping with random people." "I don't want that either, it's too scary. So you'll make sure I sleep with the right people?" "Yes. But mostly me. You're so good to me, I've never been treated the way you treat me. You're actually kind." "You think I'm kind?" "Of course you are." "I kinda feel like I'm taking advantage of you." "You're taking advantage of me? Because of age?" "Right." "But I'm more worldly that you, mister!" "Maybe." "What do you mean, maybe? Definitely. I've been more places, done more things." "Yeah, I guess so." "I know so. You're a child compared to me." "I'm a child?" "You are. You're so innocent. You're pure compared to me. You want to talk about fucking random people? Maybe I need some of that medicine, because I'm the worst." "Oh, don't tell me about who you've fucked. I've read about it in the news!" "Lol. I know. See? That's what I'm saying. I've been around the block more than you." "And only eight years old." "Hey! I'm nine, hello!" "Oh you are, I thought you were eight." St★rchild shakes her head. "I'm nine." She swallows. "You need some water?" "No, I've just got—my mouth is dry. I'll get some in a minute, I like lying here talking to you." I looked at her, up and down, from her tiny feet to her bigger-than-life head and wild head of red hair to her little-lipped vagina. "Can I take a picture of you?" "Sure. Use my camera, I develop with a guy I trust." I grab her camera and move back on the bed. "You mean you can trust him not to sell your pictures?" St★rchild nods. I frame her up, getting her whole naked body in the shot. She turns her face up to me and puts her arm behind her head, holding her hair out of her face, a natural poser. I snap it. A picture like that makes me feel like a child molester. St★rchild let me keep it. Something about it being in a photo makes it seem wrong, my relationship with her. Like these are those dirty pictures people trade on the internet. Like my upskirt pictures. Except this one's of someone I know. Tiny st★rchild, she looks so vulnerable in that photo, like you could break her. In real life she's nothing like that. She's sturdy. You can't just break her with a little force, even the force of fucking her in her throat, she doesn't break. She's got a stringy backbone, like a caught fish, it bends one way but not the other. I just don't bend her the wrong way, she's fine. She can take fucking in the ass and fucking in the vagina and throat-fucking, all the same. She's strong. She's my strong, strong fish. Fysh. Slippery fysh. Soap suds fysh. Slipping between my fingers and slipping out of my hands! Don't drop her on the bottom of the boat, she likes beds and hotels, fresh towels and showers, limousines, talcum powder for her scales. My little fyshy-dysh! When she sits on top of me I can see her tendons stretching, those inner-leg tendons stretching out tight, leading up to her pussy. Those are strong. That's strong material. You can't just break her in two. It would take saws and pliers to rip her apart. You could take her apart with a hacksaw and a pair of pliers, if you wanted to. Take her head right off with the hacksaw. Undo her arms, her legs. Put her in several large trash bags and dispose of her. Keep an eyeball as a trophy. Put it on ice. It would probably decompose quickly, lose its shininess. When you look at a person's body too long you start to see them in these terms, disposable, separable, limited. All we are is hearts and legs and tendons, veins and fat, bone. Even a star. She's just a certain brain with certain eyes and certain hair. She can be taken apart, will be taken apart, at some point. She was put together and she will be taken apart. Echoes. Insert my thumb in her vagina, press down, and split her up the middle. Like a crab, like eating a crab. Break the exoskeleton and get to the good part. Candy at center of wood. Eat out her pussy from the inside, lick all the way up to her cervix. Remove that. Throw it away. Finger her uterus. Taste it. See how it feels. Take a picture. Flash! I photographed your insides. I felt you there. You were willing. You wanted to be part of my experiment. Where you cut off my dick and feed it to me, cook it in some garlic and onion and season it with lime. As a way to be close to each other. A way to connect. To do something together that we haven't done with anyone else. Dismember each other and eat each other's limbs. You eat my penis. I eat your nipple. We do this all on a tarp in the kitchen, with a couple of stools, a bottle of vodka, and a hacksaw. Digesting each other's body parts, shitting them out into mixing bowls, and eating each other's shit. Then we hack off the next body part. Repeat until dead. Wash down the meal with a glass of urine, your urine. But suck my dick before you cut it off, so I can cum one last time. And we'll get you off before breaking you in half like the crab, removing your hardened shell to find your soft insides. That crab meat, pulled from its shell with razor fingernails. Everything here is a reference, a pointer. Have you ever done programming? A reference is a handle for getting at something else. It's a viaduct, by which you may reach the real object. Everything here is a reference. As we're taking bone from bone, slicing meat from meat, severing tendons with garden clippers, everything here is a reference. This story isn't even about what this story's about! Snapped that picture of st★rchild, all this flashed through my mind. About me being a pervert who was sleeping with the eight-year-old in that picture. Nine year old! She was too young to fuck, and it flooded into me by looking at that picture. I had to see her in real life only, where ours was not a crime but simply shit-love! Love fallen into by two people who love shit! By two people who'll eat their own cum. By a nine-year-old who squirts! and squirts good. Tasting her afterbirth in the hotel in New York before we ever got here, slurping it up with knives. And she wondered: what would my shit taste like if all I ate was cum? Maybe we'll try that sometime, when we're both into it, when you have a week to kill. Between your glorious pictures, which I have adored since they came out. But never in a picture, it's too gritty for me like that, I see you how they see you, not how you really are. You're really ready. You're really my corruptor. You're really willing to go through with all our sex acts, no matter how vile. You love vile. You teach me things. You show up the innocent side of me! You put me to shame, how much you know about the world. If I had grown up in your environment, then maybe. But I'm from a quiet town with quiet people, I'm not a New Yorker. I just live there. I'm from Ohio, baby. I wasn't born into LA with LA people and LA shit. You've worn dresses that exceed my annual income. You're a princess. And my princess, to play with, to commune with, to snip tendons and eat blood with. Eat my blood, cut me, suck it out of my veins. Give me your vaginal blood, let me drink from your cup, clots and all. Eat my boogers, pick them out for yourself, enjoy them, salty little treats. Until I've drunk your blood, do I know you? Do I really know you? I mean in the Biblical sense. Do I know you? Do, I know you? Do I know you? I know you once I've sucked your teets. Tasted the milk that grows inside of you. Had my fingers and my tongue inside of you, shone a flashlight down your throat. When I've seen you cum, exhausted, then I know you. I snap that picture, and it shows me how others see you. A minor nude in a bed, her panties just out of frame. A superstar, caught exposed, sold to the tabloids by a shady photo developer. A child, being abused. But come to me, wrap you in my arms. You're none of those things. And don't anybody say this is the new Lolita, because it's not. Lolita is about sad, sad people. This is a different kind of book. You come to me, lie with me. You'll have your coke soon. Don't worry, it's waiting for you by the bedside. You'll be back at your party soon. For now it's time for you to lie with me and be the you that's not in the picture, the real you, the you who sits on top of me and cums like a dog. Who bends over and lets me take you from behind, again, cumming like a dog. It's so good that way, from behind, it's one of the best inventions in sex, that simple position. Let your hair fall in your face and we bump each other, bump, bump. Let you tell me not to stop. Lie with me and let's remember these things we've done together, in our short time. Remember our basic swapping of spit, one simple way of knowing each other. Remember me inside you, and hold it there, I want to stay there forever, moving just enough to keep me hard. Have someone take pictures of us. "Do you want to?" "Do I want to what?" "Have someone take pictures of us?" "Yeah, I do." "'Cause I can arrange that." "Ok, but someone we trust, like Jess." "It'll be someone we trust. You might have to meet someone new, is that ok?" "Yes, it's ok, as long as you trust them. Don't you think it would be nice to have some pictures of us?" "You mean some pictures of us fucking." "Yeah, I'd like to see those." "We will." And then your tiny body, naked, goes to the nightstand and does a line of coke. Little buttocks sticking out, breasts with milk on their nipples where I was sucking you. Inhaling cocaine. Like a champion. I see you squeeze your butt cheeks together when you suck in the air. Little hands holding the straw tightly. Then you fall back on the floor, like such a kid! Feet in the air, ass exposed, hands sweeping your hair out of your face. "Do one." "I'm good." "You better do one or I'll never have sex with you again." "Ok, I'll do one." I go to her nightstand, pushing her legs out of the way so I can get to it. I can see my face in the mirrored top of the nightstand, and I see facial hair and my yellow teeth. Wonder why she of all people would want to be with me. I scrape off a line and do it, with the same straw she used. I fall back on her and she has her legs wrapped around me and her arms pulling my head all the way back, most of my weight on her. "Am I crushing you?" "No, you're not that heavy." "Bull-shit!" "You're not that bad. It feels good. I like when you lie on me." "Like this?" "Like in bed, when you're on top of me. I like the weight. It makes me feel protected." "You wanna go outside now?" "Yes." "We'll see if your party has degraded into an orgy." "It hasn't. Other than Jess, all of those people are conservatives." "I wonder how your baby's doing." "I don't. Corinne's got her." "So did you like hire her?" "Yeah, why?" "Just wondered. How much does she make?" "None of your damn business." "Sor-ry! Whew! Didn't mean to offend you!" "You didn't. Put on your clothes." "Yeah, you too, put on your panties again and walk around like that." "Do you want me to?" "I don't care." St★rchild puts on a new pair and a dress. "It's cold out by now." I get myself dressed and I'm doing another line of coke when st★rchild comes up behind and puts both arms around me. She squeezes tight. She does her line and we go downstairs. All the girls and the one other guy who were here before are still here. The night lights are on in the pool and everyone's lounging around in or on chairs. Jess is there, but she's not looking at me. St★rchild takes my hand and leads me outside. "Everyone, I would like to announce.." She holds our hands up in the air. "..my new boyfriend! Please welcome him into our little fold. He lives in New York but he's going to be staying here a while and keeping me company while I start my new film, which is just neck week. A round of applause please." There's barely a smattering of applause. St★rchild turns to the side, where no one is. "Should we get dinner?" She looks the other way. "Corinne, are you free tonight? Yes? We're going to Brasserie les Voyous. Lancôme will drive you. Lancôme make sure she has whatever supplies she needs to take care of Olive. You can stop on the way if you need to get something. Just meet us there. Everyone? Brasserie les Voyous? Ok." She starts walking. "St★rchild." "Yes?" "Who am I going with?" She steps close to me and takes my hand. "You're coming with me!" I could tell you about the restaurant. I could tell you about the wild antics we got into there. I could tell you about how st★rchild had to drive with blocks strapped to her feet so she could reach the pedals. I could tell you about how she snuck away to the bathroom to lick her baby's tiny clit about every fifteen minutes, and how we had great steaks and fine wine and sat in this little alcove thingy where we could fit almost everyone, with the assistants sitting at a separate table. But I'm going to skip ahead a bit, to when st★rchild's movie started. It was just the next week. St★rchild and I had been sleeping in her bed together. I slept with my laptop by the bed, so I could write at a moment's notice. Corinne stayed over some nights, some nights we were in charge of Olive. I'm thinking of @'ing @SteveRoggenbuck to ask what alt lit is. I don't think I understand it. I hate to think that I might be alt lit and not even know it. If it just means you're not published by a major publisher, that's one thing. If it means you misspell words, that's another. Penny Goring is alt lit (she's included on alt lit reading lists) but why? I wrote the introduction to her book and I have no idea. Corinne was quiet, she sang songs to Olive to get her to sleep, and I liked to listen. Maybe alt lit was going to be remembered in ten years. If it turned out to be a fresh land that contained riches that the traditional publishing world let behind. Or the start of a non-commercial publishing trend. I would lie in bed with st★rchild listening to the nanny sing Olive to sleep and it was like she was singing us all to sleep, like we were all her children. Corinne was just a teenager herself, maybe seventeen, eighteen. So double st★rchild's age but half mine. When Olive slept, Corinne would sleep in, passed out on the couch in the room next to ours, with Olive sleeping on a blanket on the floor. St★rchild kept her clit-licking and cunt-sucking activities to herself, or between me and her and Olive; Corinne wasn't party to that. St★rchild would ask, "Is she clean?" and take Olive from Corinne into the bathroom, or into our room. She'd close the door and we'd both take turns licking the baby's tiny clitoris, bathing her with our tongues. I didn't have any guilt about it, it seemed like a fun game we were playing with our baby. The mother was right here, so what harm could it be if she was doing it? It was a way for me and st★rchild to be close. And it was just fun. Olive seemed to like it, she would coo and rock her pelvis to our touch. I started brushing her nipples when we would do it, too, I thought she deserved some nipple stimulation. I imagined her giving milk, which she would soon, and her little nipples would get hard when I touched them. She was bathed in our love, all kinds of love. Special, touching love. Intimate, sexy love. After she was clean we would turn her over and take turns licking her butthole. She liked that. She would wave her arms as much as she could lying down, and turn her head from one side to the other, like she was trying to look back there to see what was going on. St★rchild liked to stick her pinky finger up her butt and wiggle it around while I would lean in and kiss Olive on the mouth, tonguing her and kissing her gums. At first she would start back because my face was so big in her view, then she would submit to the kisses. I liked to kiss her ears, too, stick my tongue all the way in them and taste her wax, earthy and spicy, tiny little hairs inside her ears. Then st★rchild would spit on Olive's vagina and I would slap it, gently, with two fingers. Slap slap slap! Then I'd rub the saliva in. St★rchild would be holding Olive's hands saying "Cheer cheer cheer! You're my little soccer player. Cheer! Are you happy baby?! Happy?! I'm your momma and this is your sort-of father but don't call him that or he'll get mad. But a baby needs a father. Yeah. Yes. You are my one and only baby and I love you! Let me spit on her again." Sometimes we would blindfold her, with a sock or the sleeve of a shirt, set on her face or tied around her head. Then we would stimulate her to try to make it more exciting. When she would poop in our hands we would rub the stool all over her, even getting some in her mouth, and then st★rchild and I would lock fingers and stand facing each other and just stare into each other. It was a partnership. We were partners. We liked to just stand like that, and look in each other's eyes. We were saying words with our eyes. Words like "partnership" and "togetherness." Words like "yes" and "now." Then we'd wash our hands and wash off Olivia clean enough that when we gave her back to Corinne Corinne wouldn't notice she'd been covered in shit. I think Corinne enjoyed the breaks. We'd just tell her we were giving Olive a bath or something. We'd come back, Corinne would be sitting on the couch, her head leaned back, and she'd stand up and throw her arms forward and say, "Did you miss me, pretty baby?" Then st★rchild and I would go and have sex, sometimes with the door open, and we'd do cocaine and wipe our noses, and I would work on my book after sex, and st★rchild would look at herself in the mirror, searching for something. When she started her movie, I was invited along with her entourage to be present at filming, with Kenzie and friends, Lancôme, and of course Corinne and Olive. St★rchild had all kinds of people coming and going. She was always on the phone. She would text Lancôme while they were in the same room together, with to-do items. She would text to have drugs delivered. She would just text her friends to come over. And she was very polite. She always introduced me to each one, unless I was working, in which case she waited until I was done. I came to see Lancôme the way st★rchild saw her: as a toolbox. A way to get things done, not a person to be chatted with or to hang out with. But someone to tell what to do and expect it be done. I stopped going to st★rchild to ask for things and went directly to Lancôme. On the set, Corinne had to keep Olive quiet or it would interrupt filming. Once one or two takes had been messed up by Olive's crying, Corinne would take her outside the stage and we wouldn't see her again until she had quieted. St★rchild needed constant sexual attention herself, and she would have me inside her trailer to fuck. Sometimes I wrote in her trailer because it was a quieter place to write than on set. I'd see st★rchild between setups and we'd make love. She liked it standing up, or with her against the door of her trailer, me pinning her there with my dick. She would get this look in her eyes that I have trouble describing, but it was a look of submission—submission to the process. I'd process her good, too, she came like a queen. We'd do it seven times a day. When we were tired of fucking I'd eat her out, stick my tongue all the way into that nine-year-old pussy and tongue-fuck her. She would squirt when she came, and I'd lick it off my face and off the bed, off her legs. They had to replace the futon in her trailer I don't know how many times. They'd bring a new one one, and we'd stain that one. She'd leave me exhausted with all that fucking, I had trouble writing some days, I just wanted to lay around in her trailer and drink and do cocaine and stare out the window at the California sky. St★rchild would send Lancôme to check on me. She'd knock on the trailer door. I'd tell her to come in. She'd have a seat at the table and I'd be in bed, naked. I'd sit up. She'd do her check-in and tell me st★rchild just wanted to make sure I was ok and if I needed anything to ask Lancôme. So sometimes I ordered food, sometimes I asked her to bring me magazines or specific books I wanted to re-read. And she would go buy the books, on st★rchild's dime, and bring them to me. Lancôme, bring me a portable DVD player and the following DVDs. Lancôme, I want a gin martini, from this certain bar, in a to-go cup. Bring it to me. She would. Lancôme could get you anything, old, new, borrowed, blue, illegal or legal. She had a million numbers programmed into her phone, more than st★rchild, from all the places she was used to calling to get stuff. Lancôme would sit with me a while, we'd talk about whatever, st★rchild, st★rchild's show, st★rchild's baby—you get the point. Lancôme would even do coke with me. We didn't talk for long (she was the slave) but we'd trade a few words and do some coke before she buzzed on back to the set to report to st★rchild that I was ok. I came to the set high on coke, would wander from the trailer over to the snack area to the set, where I had a chair. Would sit there and watch my lover perform sex scenes with other men, sex scenes with women, cryptic green screen sequences, close ups. The whole movie was shot indoors. They had sets to make it look like anything. Even sunlight..they had lights that looked exactly like the sun was shining. The set was very quiet, very organized. I felt like st★rchild, Olivia and I were the least organized part of it. I'd sit down in my chair, high on coke, and watch st★rchild perform dance sequences, look over to see Olivia in her crib, Corinne dipping a hand into it to give Olive something to tug on. Jess came around, and we hugged tightly and held hands for a second. I thought it would be rude to fuck her in st★rchild's trailer with st★rchild not around but st★rchild came over and said, "She's yours. Do with her what you will." So I fucked Jess in st★rchild's trailer and we had plenty of things to talk about, her being a little older than st★rchild. We'd get ultra-high on coke, then fuck, the cum on coke, then just sit around and read magazines and talk about my life and hers. She wanted to act, but couldn't get into it. I said I'd talk to st★rchild to see if she could get her a part in something. Jess said that'd be wonderful. She would suck my cock while I watched DVDs, just keep me hard for hours. I was never afraid she'd come between me and st★rchild, though. Jess and I didn't talk affection to each other. We fucked and we talked about other things, but we never said 'I love you' or anything like that. We were purely sex buddies. St★rchild would sometimes come in when we were doing it. She'd look over at us, then take a shower or get something out of the refrigerator. I think Jess was just like the DVD player, something st★rchild could offer to keep me entertained. I was just following the sex, doing what any man would. I had a life in New York, though it was a quiet life. I didn't have an entourage, I'll say that much. I wrote in the mornings and wasted time in the afternoons, videoconferenced with my friend in Austin, by best friend from long ago, went to bookshops, bought novels and poetry to read. Hadn't done coke in a long time before I met st★rchild, not for ten years. I drank wine when I was done with my writing, all through the afternoon and evening. Watched TV, especially when the Olympics were on. Told myself I needed to start exercising. Sometimes went out to a wine bar. I knew people at restaurants, people who worked there, hostesses and servers and cooks and kitchen managers and restaurant owners. I had sex with the occasional hostess, nothing that lasted long. With st★rchild I was following the sex. We'd had our meeting in the alley. I'd gotten to taste her, then, and I was just chasing it down. I assumed we'd be able to talk, as I assume with everyone, and I was right, we were compatible in ways other than sex, but primarily, we were lovers, we had sex with each other. It had been about sex and shit from the beginning, with us. Shit and sex. That we were cunt-licking her small daughter was icing on the cake. But primarily, it was that feeling, that feeling of my dick inside st★rchild's pussy that was what I was after. It was later that we became friends, just from spending time together, and by the time her movie started we were friends, we held hands and talked some nights instead of having sex. Mostly we fucked, though, fucked until we got sweaty and came. Then st★rchild would take a shit and let me wipe her butt. She wiped mine, too, and she would congratulate me on my poops, "Good poop. Good poop. You did a good job. You're a big boy with big poops." She would do the same with cum. "You came big this time. Look, it's all over this way! How the fuck did it get here?! You're my big, good cummer." She would wipe up the extra with her fingers and lick them. If you've never seen a nine year old with strings of cum flowing out of her mouth..it was good. She would rhythmically get me off with her mouth; she could get me off so quick when she wanted to. She told me that when she was younger she and a male friend of hers had made oral sex their project, and they practiced getting each other off with their mouths, such that she had become a champion dick-sucker, able to get off the toughest guy in less than a hundred seconds. She proved this to me many times. "You need to cum?" she would say, and with hardly as much as a nod from me, she'd have my pants down and my dick in her mouth, and she'd get me off. I could get her off with my mouth but it was a significantly slower process. I would use my fingers and my mouth, and that would do her in. Sometimes she would shriek when she came, and flex her legs hard, I had to worry about getting kicked, but that's how she did it. Like she was being shocked. When I was eating her out I would think about sentence structure and passages of text I was putting together for my book. It's not like I wasn't paying attention, but how much attention does it really require? I listened to the sounds she made, responded. If I was way off track she would reach down and move me with her hands. I like being told what to do in a sex-type situation. It's hot. She would let me know what she liked, and I would do it. And we had the same arrangement the other way around. Let me be what you want me to be to you. Let me mold my fingers and my tongue and my cock to please you. Make your vagina into what I need it to be. Let me eat your nipples, your ass, your face. Let me read you poetry while we fuck; I'll give you extra emphasis with my cock. When the line ends, when the cadence suggests it, I'll thrust into you. When I'm fucking you really hard, I'll spread your ass cheeks and bury my fingers in your asshole. Hold you down with one hand, hold you around your throat, choke you until you almost pass out. Punch you in your little face, to make you feel it more. So yeah, I was a little good-for-nothing pussy chaser, and st★rchild was my taste. I had never been with someone so young, and the quality of pussy was so great, it blinded me to anything else. I would literally eat shit for her. That's how great the pussy was. She had me eating both of our shit, raw, because it struck her fancy. I got to where even when she wasn't around, I'd reach around while it was coming out of my ass and grab a fingerful. Slurp it. Chew. Swallow. Just to think of her when she wasn't there. Even to this day, when I take a shit, I think of her, and sometimes still I taste mine, as a silent toast to the st★rchild. Do you blame me for following the pussy? It's innate, man, it's what I was built to do. Fuck it and protect it. Though there's nothing much needs protecting in this day and age, and there was even less that needed protecting about someone of her riches. She could take care of herself. (Well, she and her agent.) I just followed it from New York to California, shacked up with it for a while, loved it, fucked it, talked to it, hung out with it, occasionally argued with it, and kept myself from taking it for granted. Every fuck we had, I appreciated. Every fuck. There was no one better that could have been with her. She picked me, remember! She moved my dick into position. All I was responsible for was stopping to wash the shit off her when the shit needed washing. She invited the rest! What was I going to do, resist a moviestar? She wanted me. Once I felt that soap suds squeaking, I wanted her too. And I know there's some of you who will complain that she was only nine. This wasn't just any nine year old. She was worldly. She was more worldly than me. I didn't corrupt her, she came like this. I just met her, and saw this strange creature, and fell in love. That I could have what I had seen on the silver screen! Irresistable. All those photos, the pictures, the movies I had seen with her in them, were realer than real to me now. I had her in my bed! Or technically we were in her beds, but whatever. I don't want you to think I'm trying to convince you this was true love or anything. True lust would be more like it. But we were right for each other for a certain time, that's all. That's all I'm trying to say. One day st★rchild comes to me with Olivia. I'm in the trailer. St★rchild comes in carrying the baby and a No. 2 pencil. She lays Olivia on the table, takes off her diaper. "What are you doing?" "Hold this." She hands me the pencil. St★rchild has the child's vagina lips spread. "Gimme that." "Why." "Because I wanna try something." I'm looking from Olive to st★rchild, and back. "What are you thinking." "You know." "I don't think you should do that." "I just wanna try." "Don't you have a movie to be making?" "We're on break. Gimme that." I hold it back from her. "St★rchild. Really. Truly. You can't do this." "Gimme the pencil or no sex for you. I'm serious. This is my baby. Gimme the goddamn pencil." I shake my head. "I'm gonna set this pencil on the table and walk out of this trailer, and whatever you do, is on you." "Stop judging me." "I'm not judging you, I'm just—" "Judging me." I exhale. Slowly, I set the pencil down. "Aren't you leaving?" "No, I'm staying here to watch." "Who wants to watch now?" "I'm staying to watch you, to make sure you don't do anything fucked up." "Uh-huh. That's what they tell themselves." St★rchild takes the pencil. "You mind helping?" "How?" "Hold her open while I do this." "Oh my god." But I do it. I reach in and hold Olive open. St★rchild looks me in the eyes. Then she goes down to Olive and takes the blunt end of the pencil and presses it up against her hymen. She presses in a bit. She looks up at me. "What?" "It won't go." "Try the other end." "I don't want to poke her." "Just push on it a little. You won't hurt her." St★rchild reverses the pencil. The sharp end is pointed toward Olive's cunt. St★rchild also spreads the child's lower lips apart and gently probes the hymen. "Are you having fun?" "Yes, as a matter of fact I am. Are you still judging me?" "I guess not. No. Do it." So st★rchild pokes the pencil into her baby with some force, breaking the hymen, and she twirls the pencil around in her fingers. "Won't Corinne notice?" "I don't give a fuck if she does notice. She's my baby." "They can take your baby away for things like this." "If Corinne says anything, she's dead. Anyway she probably won't even notice. Look, it's hardly bleeding. And look. The hole is tiny." "But Olive is tiny." "No one will notice. It' not like I'm cutting her or anything." St★rchild's and my eyes meet one more. "Don't get any ideas." "I'm not. Jeeze. I'm not. I'mma take her back. How's your writing?" "Uh. It's ok. I'm stuck on what to write about." "Write about this." "I don't want to get you in trouble. If someone reads it." St★rchild steps down the first step of the trailer, Olive in her arms, the used diaper still on the table. She looks back at me. "Write about whatever you want," she says. I thought about sitting on the steps crying. For that loss, that loss of innocence that Olivia just experienced. I wasn't feeling so close to st★rchild. I didn't understand why she did what she did, and most of the time I was ok with it, but this was a little different. I actually thought about calling Child Protective Services, I did. Getting on a plane and going back to New York. But I convinced myself that the world was a crazy place and crazy things happen in the world and who am I to do anything about it. Stay out of st★rchild's business. Who was Olive to me? Instead of sitting on the steps crying I did coke for the rest of the afternoon. Didn't write a thing. Was so high after a while that I walked onto st★rchild's set barefoot (a no-no) and went right up to st★rchild and started making out with her. "Whoah. What brings this on? Mmm. Yeah. I like this. Baby, what happened to you?" "Just lonely out in your trailer. Wanted to be next to you." "Mmm. You are. Lancôme, get me some Parliaments. You make me want to smoke, baby, when you kiss me like that. Lancôme, not the 100s." "Um. St★rchild. Waiting on you." "Baby. Baby, I gotta film right now, ok. I'll make out with you in a second. Sit in my chair. Don't do any more coke right now, your heart is beating fast, baby. Drink this." She hands me the Voss that was sitting on her chair. Have Lancôme get you something to eat. I gotta film this now. Just wait." She points at me as she walks backward up to the set. "Somebody get him some shoes!" "I'm on it," says this cute little PA that I'd like to fuck. When she comes with the shoes I'm looking down at her, watching her tie the laces, and I'm just grabbing snapshots and imagining her O face. I wanna stick my dick up in her. Wanna rub it around. She has a ponytail run through the back of her baseball cap. Brown hair. Little mouse. I wanna fuck you, little mouse. Hear you squeak. Wanna wiggle my dick right up into you. Ooooh, little mouse. She puts on the other shoe, ties the shoelaces. Then she's gone and I'm shifting in the chair, trying to get comfortable, watching them apply makeup to the st★rchild. As I'm watching them, I'm remembering this time from childhood where a girl was chasing me on the playground and I ran into..inside of..this concrete pipe. I hit my head. I put my hand to my head and when I brought it back it had blood on it. My head was bleeding. I always wonder how that's affected my "chase" with girls (women). Am I hesitant to be chased by women because I might cut my head? I can still feel the concrete hitting my head, stopping me. Everyone has life insurance policies so it's ok. St★rchild finishes with makeup and the director is talking to her, waving his hands. He bends down to be at her same height. He's making a tubular motion with his hands. I have no idea what he might be showing her. I'm behind on the scenes, been spending all my time in the trailer with my own writing. The director walks back to his place at the monitor and the AD gets everyone quiet. I grab a quick gulp of the Voss because I am deathly afraid of making sound, any sound, during filming. I hardly breathe. St★rchild is stripping in this scene, walking toward the camera, and as she does it I just stare at her body, knowing it already so well, now all these people are watching. The natural thing to do at the end of the scene is for me to go up there and fuck her, but I don't, it's not time for that. I have to wait to do that, which is stupid, 'cause there she is naked and why can't I just do that. Afraid of dying in a plane crash. Fucking that mousy girl. If I stretched her out on a table, and inserted my penis into her vagina, would she squeal? "Insert" the "penis" into the "vagina." Chest pains. Could these be my death? Having a heart attack from this coke? Just watch the scene. Watch st★rchild undress in slow motion, not in our bedroom, for a whole stage full of people. I had a friend once who told me I should push the limits more with my wardrobe. He's dead. He died of throat cancer. Smoker. St★rchild is going to die someday, hopefully not soon. Her little body in a short coffin, early casualty of fame? Hopefully not. Maybe I would inherit her money. Thoughts of murder. Put some fucking clothes on, st★rchild." They cover her with a robe between takes. She leaves the front open, and you can see her lips, her fledgling breasts. Breastfeeding Olivia has deepened them, flushed them out a bit. Her nipples are larger now, still not that large. Larger than mine, but. "Cut!" "Cut!" The AD says it right after the director, and louder. People bustle around, bringing st★rchild her robe, her water, someone has a script open so she can peruse it. People are moving lights and electrical cords. "That was great st★rchild, we'll move on." "Moving on!" "Next setup is scene 36-A. The bed scene." Great. The bed scene. Now I get to watch my young lover pretend to have sex with someone else. Maybe it'll turn me on. Sparks of love. I look over and see Olivia lying in her cage. She's not even old enough to crawl. You might notice that in the hymen-piercing scene (above) there was no reference to the baby crying. That's because when st★rchild and I are torturing Olive the sound gets turned down for me and Nine Inch Nails plays in my brain. I listen to The Downward Spiral by magical playback and there are no little infantile screams to be heard. St★rchild is in front of me, her robe open, and she's laying her head on my head. I reach through her robe and start fingering her, gentle at first, then finger-fucking. She grips my shoulders. Pump pump pump. She's swaying. I curl my finger inside her, touching the wall nearest me with its G-spot. Gräfenberg would be proud. I rub her the way I know she likes to be rubbed. She puts one leg up on the foot rung at the bottom of her chair. I look at her face but her eyes are closed. I look over at Corinne. She's looking at us, and when I look at her she turns away. St★rchild is very wet. Olivia starts crying, and st★rchild looks over at her. She starts to move but my finger is still inside her. "Out, out!" she says, and she bends over to pick up Olive. She puts the baby on her shoulder and walks around the stage, robe open, shusshing her child. Do you think I'm demonizing the mother too much? Does this make this piece misogynist? The guy is the hero, he's the one who has second thoughts about piercing the baby's hymen, while she's all gung-ho to deflower her own baby? It's a rhetorical question, I don't really care what you think. Not everything is meant to be critiqued. But, critics have to have something to do, I understand. So critique on, critics, and I'll write. You have to understand something about asshole bleaching clinics. These weren't necessarily started by the people with the cleanest assholes. I got billed from my law firm for nine dollars and twenty-four cents. They had calculated what they spent on postage to send me letters, and were billing me for that. For their stamps they used to send me letters! I didn't pay it, even though I should have with the whole Lindsay Lohan thing looming. I needed my lawyer on my side. But postage? It didn't seem right. St★rchild walks her baby around the stage. I look at Corinne. She doesn't seem like she's noticed anything wrong with Olive, like the fact that her mother tried to remove the baby's hymen with a pencil. She's just happy to be getting paid. Children taking care of the children. I needed a full-time doctor, several of them, to manage all my symptoms. I think I'm stable on my meds now. We're just making minor changes to the OCD medication, which might have made me hallucinate before but now it doesn't seem to be. That hallucination might have been due to other medication, or might have been because I was manic. I haven't been manic or depressed in months. I float along at a reasonable balance of emotions, troubled by little, waiting for a star to fall down into my lap. With painted nails I feel more conscious of my hands, my hands feel sexier. Not sexiest, but sexier. Didn't anyone ever teach you grammar? How to form words? We met in a Virgin records once and picked out computer games for the Playstation 3. You thought $59.99 was too much to pay. Then Sunset Boulevard. Down by that Beverly Hills spot, where the hotels. They have great billboards there, I might have been mistaken. Flump. Get a lot of flump. And the girl in the cage in the lobby. So stylish, to have a slave locked up for your entertainment. Is she working on her thesis? One of my readers is working me into hers. She interviewed me about Things Said in Dreams and the answers are going into her thesis. We had steak last night, ate out with Corinne and the baby. Lancôme was dismissed, the four of us sat in a booth at Flemings and ate prime rib. It was quality beef. St★rchild and I took turns telling secrets and we tried to get Corinne to play but she would only answer a few questions. She blushed. But st★rchild and I talked loudly and we sounded like a couple of sailors. Boy, can that girl cuss. I was sorry Olive had to listen to it but I figured she had worse problems than that. This is page 69 in my initial draft. What page will it be on when it gets to you? St★rchild liked her steak rare, just like me, and rare steak always made me think of pussy. Cut it open with a knife, reveal its insides. Gnaw on it. Work it with your teeth. I knew a little rare steak once, this was in Ohio, before I moved to New York. She was about twelve. She was the daughter of someone I used to go to church with and she was just the right age to have those first sexual experiences. My friend Jimmy thought I was sick for calling her a rare steak but I was just trying to be accurate. I never did anything with her, though, I was too scared. That was before I got old enough to know that you don't let opportunities pass you by. To know how scarce human contact is. Six and four. 38.3k. Jimmy was a drug addict, pills, and I wonder if he's still alive. He was much older than me and never ceased to hit on me, trying to get us to have sex but all I would do was be his friend. It kind of messed up the friendship, his hitting on me. I could never relax around him, let my guard down, because he was so into that thing. (That thing, that thing, that thing.) Shades of ticky ticky. Ricky ticky ticky. Thirty-second notes. The punctuation. There is a structure to all this, it's laid down below the words and is evidenced in the punctuation, the words that do surface, and the tonal connection through the words. Some people pick one word to focus on every year, to live that word, sink in its meaning. I pick one word every one thirty-second of a second. Thirty-two words per second, that is my clock speed. Sometimes I overclock. Seven and three. Wishful thinking. Sometimes the clock gets out of sync. That's when I haven't taken my trazodone. You need to take your trazodone. Otherwise you won't sleep, and it'll be all Rose Terwilliger. Google her, she's beautiful. Not that Rose Terwilliger! The other one. Yeah. With the beauty mark under her eye. That's the one I'm talking about. She is true youth, and I know her from sharing space in an institution. Now is Rose Terwilliger going to sue me? Hopefully she'll never read this, she's off having a nice life somewhere. Staying on the path. It's regrettable because I wanted to fuck Rose Terwilliger (who wouldn't?) but we never got around to it, we were too busy recovering. She gave me Skittles once and I doubt she even remembers it but it was a sweet gesture. A nice gesture. When I type my typos are one word long. Like I type a completely different word in its entirety, before I see the mistake. My brain is doing things I'm unaware of. I sweated last night. Slept in my clothes. St★rchild asked me if there was anything wrong. I just didn't feel like getting into it with her. I felt like I was camping, sleeping like that, with word check spell checking me all the time. Like it's looking over my shoulder, making sure all the words I type in are real words. St★rchild and I both make up words. It's part of our compatibility. Understand that I'm stylizing. Understand that. Then we'll have an easier time of it, and you don't have to worry so much. St★rchild will wake me up at night and have her cunt on my face. She rubs all over my beard and gets me to lick her when I wake up. I wake her up for sex, too, when I wake up and I'm hard I wake her up and we fuck, half-asleep, huffing and panting and then falling back into bed. Once upon a time. Let's start that way. Once upon a time, there was a little girl named st★rchild. She didn't like her name spelled with a capital letter because it wasn't a proper name. And there was a boy, who lived in New York, who was between thirty-five and forty, and one day they ran into each other on the street. One and nine. Is it like a code? Some kind of numerology? The gas tank on st★rchild's car is on the driver side. I don't have a car. Who needs one? My OCD kicked in there after some sleepless nights. I'm a drastic mess psychologically. Have you noticed by my writing? So yeah, it's dual diagnosis. But not that kind of dual diagnosis, because I don't have a drug problem anymore. I still use drugs, it's just not a problem. Have you taken any prescription sleeping pills in the last thirty days that weren't prescribed to you? Does not apply, might apply, definitely applies. Will you let me drive your car next time? I want to get head while I'm driving a convertible. We'll keep the top down. You suck my dick. I'll drive real fast. Do you have some more of that blow? I told you to remember that I'm stylizing..did you remember that? Someone who works at the library. She had a wheelchair behind her door and she drew blood exquisitely, I could hardly feel the prick. And no rooting around to find veins, I hate that. They're going to check my cholesterol and my glucose, because those things can be affected by some psych medications. We ate McDonald's sometimes, threw the wrappers on the floor of her car and let Lancôme pick them up. St★rchild had been in a number of accidents so I tried to save us from more of that by my driving. When we went out to eat she had to bring bodyguards, so it'd be just her and me and two thick-neck bouncer-looking dudes who followed us into the Lucky Devil. We'd get the Kobe burgers with diablo sauce and a bottle of wine. St★rchild would count her money, looking at her accounts, figuring out her millions. And I'd read on my tablet while we waited for food, old stuff of my own, looking for typos, and st★rchild would play with my dick with her foot under the table. We used to do that in school, play with each other's genitals with our feet. But I've told you all this before. We're repurposing, repurposing. My beard looks better in sunlight, as opposed to fluorescents. Corinne blushing. If she only knew the way st★rchild and I fucked, she'd blush even more. Corinne seemed like a church girl, like macaroni and cheese. Lancôme was like a wise sage, the sage of Hollywood. Corinne was quieter, an introvert except around the baby. If she found out what st★rchild and I had done to her, she'd call Child Protective Services. She wouldn't give a fuck that st★rchild was a moviestar. We would get turned in and st★rchild would get Olive taken away. Maybe get jail time. Whoop whoop whoop. Corinne was like our animal master, with Olive the animal, like we hired her to keep some wildlife for us. Do whatever you need to do to get by, if that's a small cocaine habit then so be it. Tell who you can trust and keep it from everybody else. Don't drive fucked up. But be reasonable. Rose Terwilliger could be reasonable. Imagine them luring you to the front door. Catching you in a net once you'd got there. Bringing sushi from the one restaurant to eat with the staff of another restaurant. By the lake. St★rchild had high class places for us to go, places where people parked Lamborghinis and they had twenty dollar shots of gin. Sometimes the first way you say a thing is the best. Just an observation. And now that st★rchild wasn't pregnant she could drink. No one carded her. She was st★rchild. Everyone knew her, and they knew her reputation, and they weren't about to be the person to tell her no. She brought business to places. For months after she went it would be the place that st★rchild likes to go, and people would go just to be like her, to walk in her shoes. Three guys sharing an apartment. No, four. A four story condo with a disassembled ATV in the garage. So many people everywhere. Doing their lives. Living. Sleeping. Breathing. Driving. Doing things like buy cars and buy houses and send their children to school. My mom is on a cruise right now. She goes once a year. We always like to see the pictures after. St★rchild trying to feed Olive a whole carrot, Corinne stopping her. St★rchild placing the carrot back on her plate, at this vegan place we like to go to. St★rchild doesn't know what to do with a baby—how would she? She spends her time acting in films and getting in car accidents, she has no brothers or sisters, so she didn't get to help take care of a baby when she was growing up. She knows how to love her baby, that's it. There's something about this sound that is making me increasingly annoyed. Can you turn that down? I haven't been sleeping well. Maybe I'm getting manic. Should call Dr. Estes in New York and tell him I'm on vacation in LA. Maybe ask him what if anything to do about my symptoms. Maybe call Dr. Meehan, see what she thinks. Do you think I'll explode? It's just this feeling of tension, I think they call it bipolar anxiety. It makes you feel like you're crawling out of your skin, like nothing is right, and like you have to do something, anything, to make it better. I've opted for no italics in this text. It can be saved as a text file and lose nothing. I'm slowly drinking wine next to st★rchild's pool and st★rchild and Corinne are off taking care of the baby. Misogynist? St★rchild comes out in a one-piece, jumps in the pool, and does a couple of laps. Corinne is following behind with the baby and the crib, setting one down and setting the other in it. By the end of the day I'll be pass-out drunk and will snore in st★rchild's bed while she reads scripts next to me. I take a sip of wine. St★rchild comes out of the water and comes over to me and kisses my cheek, dripping everywhere. It's a rare day off from filming and we're just chilling at the pad. Lancôme is off. St★rchild is having me make calls, and do things like order pizza off the internet. St★rchild likes sausage and feta. We eat outside. Olive cries. Corinne rocks her, walking up and down the length of the pool. St★rchild has her script with her, and she's reading up on tomorrow's scenes. I promised you conflict, I know, but do you remember the part where st★rchild pierces her baby's hymen? That was it. This is just a day at the pool. Do you need conflict? Or can I let go your hand and take the training wheels off? This is the future of fiction. Take a sip of wine. I get the wine from a convenience store about a block away. Usually I take st★rchild's car. Sometimes I walk. I buy many bottles when I buy. It's nice to be off the set. I haven't done any coke today. Just going to drink wine. And take my medicine at regular intervals. I never really learned to type, but can you tell anything about my typing from reading this? Probably not. We get merlots, cabs, and my favorites, syrahs and pinot noirs. This convenience store doesn't have chianti, which is my real favorite. "How's your reading going?" "Fine. How's your writing going?" "Fine, I guess." "What do you mean, you guess?" "Well I wrote two thousand words in a little under two hours, and I don't remember a thing I wrote. I guess that's good." "I think that's good you can't remember. It means you were in the moment." "Maybe. Do you want pizza?" "You read my mind!" "I'll get it. Do you have cash or do you want me to pay over the phone." "I have cash." "Nevermind, let me get this." "You don't have to." "No, I want to, you've been buying everything." "I make more," she says. "True, but you shouldn't have to pay for everything. You get it next time." "Thanks, baby, you take such good care of me. Do you want some coke? I'm going upstairs." "No, I'm not doing coke today." "Ooh-hoo! Look at you!" "You want two larges?" "Whatever you think. I'll be right back." Some of the things I say are hard to believe, even for a psychiatrist. Imagine treating me. I don't envy my doctors. "How's she doing?" That's st★rchild talking to Corinne. Corinne nods. She's bobbing up and down to keep Olive happy. Six and four again. I'm getting two larges, sausage and feta cheese, thin crust, delivered. Here's my credit card number. Press submit. Confirm order. Confirm again. Still six and four. Beat counts are approximate within a factor of one. I'm still cracked out a little from lack of sleep. Need to get back on the trazodone, lay off the coke for a while. Let that be st★rchild's thing. She does coke, crystal meth, does pills, smokes crack, and has a drinking problem. I love that girl. We'll eat like two slices of this pizza and it'll be done. Oh and if you were looking for more of a description of her drug use I don't have one for you. Sorry, it's just not part of the trip. We went to this crazy strip club that was like five stories tall and had orgy rooms in it. It was me and st★rchild and Corinne and Olive. We didn't do anything in any of the rooms, just pulled down my pants and she sucked on it for a little while. There was porn on but it wasn't my kind of porn, you know? A guy in the next room selling crystal meth. We left pretty quickly, because it was dead, but if there were more people there it could be ok. With none of st★rchild's friends over, there would be no Jess sex or me lusting after little hotties. I had Corinne if I wanted to lust after anyone, and while I wanted to corrupt her, it wasn't likely to happen because she was constantly busy with the baby. St★rchild and I would sneak away from the pool in mid-afternoon to go upstairs and fuck. You need it every so often. Without it a person could get grumpy. You need to feel your genitals rub against another's genitals (or mouth) (or hands) just to feel ok. It's a big part of mental health, regular lays, and at least I had that going for me. Normal for us was some oral, then missionary, then doggy style, and we'd usually finish up doggy style. So: nothing too exotic, just staring at a nine-year-old's back while you fuck her from behind, and she has her face pressed into a pillow while she cums. Imagine yourself gagged with a bandana, hands and feet tied, getting fucked from the side. You want just the right amount of sex in your story. Otherwise you're writing porn. Call Dr. Estes. Need to work through some of those Sunday school fantasies about Julianne Lasley, someone else who can sue me now, just for mentioning her name. I'm obsessed with her, in a small way, wondering why didn't we ever get together? Kimberly Bogan is another sexy one. Anyway I have to work through these Sunday school fantasies so I can live my life, real and present right now. Dr. Estes is going to help with that. I really need to write another thousand words on my book. Maybe after the pizza gets here. St★rchild comes downstairs, freshly high off coke, and does a few more invigorating laps in the pool. Burning those calories. She's young enough she doesn't have to worry about her weight. She's still a furnace, can eat and drink anything she wants and still stay skinny. I want to stick my Chapstick inside st★rchild's butthole. It's a nice smooth cylinder, it would work. (Two and eight.) It's just my little literary code, don't worry about it. It's just how I time the story, thought out in numbers, relative ratios of this and that. I got myself some more wine. I'm not to the point where I'm yawning off of it, but I have a nice glazed feeling as I watch over the pool area. Do I ever have to go back to my old life, or can I sit around st★rchild's pool forever? I hope the latter. Swish that wine. St★rchild's smoking a cigarette. It makes me want to smoke but I gave up smoking, long ago. Still like the smell. Oh yeah, I had this dream last night that me and st★rchild and a bunch of people from my middle school were going to a trendy restaurant to eat, and they had these wide curved booths where you could sit eight or ten people in this huge arc. I had a bookbag which gave me a balancing problem. Thank you for not discriminating with me against age, star one, you could have said I was too old and that be the end of it. Thank you for not doing that. I don't discriminate with you about age, either, even though some people would give me a hard time if they knew I was dating you. I don't discriminate because you're famous, either, more famous than me. I just like you, I like your quirks and eating pizza at your house and hanging out with you on your set. Most of the time we don't even spend together, really, but if it was just me I'd be writing alone in a room in New York, so this suits for the moment, it really does. Just what the doctor ordered. Good pussy, good company, good times. My lawyer's calling about that Lindsay Lohan suit. I'll talk to him later. I think it's going to court. Delightful. Once more chance to meet Lindsay Lohan and convince her I'm not an evil person. Five and five. Don't ever forget that this is all made up! We never severed that girl's hymen that was just a product of my imagination! You don't have to worry, no hymens were harmed during the making of this film. Or is hymen its own plural? I don't know. The pizza's here! Corinne puts the baby down and goes to get it. "Cash is by the door." "Ok." Corinne comes back with two large pizzas, places them on the table by st★rchild. "Did you tip him good?" "I tipped him ok." St★rchild opens one of the pizza boxes. The box is about as wide as half of st★rchild. She picks up a piece and the cheese is stringing all the way down to the pizza. She eats it, devours it, wiping cheese off her face with the back of her hand. "Ohmmm. It's good." I'm over next to her getting a slice. Write until the battery runs out on your laptop, that is the only way to go. Then sit at the charger and write some more. Seven and three, but by now you knew that, didn't you? You want to invent, when you write, invent something in your reader's minds. I'm too drunk to drive. Tomorrow it's back to the routine. But oh man this pizza's good. I'm nodding at st★rchild and she's nodding back. "They did it better than usual this time, didn't they?" "They did. They did they did they did. Damn this is good. I'm even hungry and I'm on coke. That's how good this pizza is." "Are you getting your lines ok?" "Yeah, I'm almost through." "Do you want me to read it with you later?" "Yeah, whenever you're at a stopping point." "Ok, I have about two hundred words left before I get to four thousand for the day so..after that?" "Cool baby." "Cool. I'mma sit down." "You want me to suck your cock?" She says this right in front of Corinne, who makes sure not to make eye contact with either of us. "When you're done with that slice." "You don't want pizza on your dick?" "You're really gonna suck my dick?" "I really am." She's gnawing on her crust, looking over at my package, then up at me. Corinne takes the baby inside, and (beautifully) st★rchild sucks my dick in the open air of her pool, and I'm looking up at the sky when she does it. My cum shoots up into her, and she catches herself, swallows. "You like that?" "Yes." "You gonna be ready to fuck me in a little while?" "Yes." "Good baby. Write. I'm gonna have another slice. Your cum tastes extra spicy today." "Might have been the jalapenos, last night." "Might be. Write, baby, write." I grab my laptop and on the serotonin high write my last two hundred words. St★rchild smoking Parliaments, placing the burning cigarette down on an ashtray, the smoke rising into the sky, st★rchild picking up the cigarette and bringing it to her lips. Pedestrian. Each stroke slowly. Smoking it, letting the smoky air into her lungs, flicking it, setting it down again. Ash falling, smoke rising, she twists the cigarette in her fingers and Corinne is coming out again with the baby, the whole afternoon is luxurious, I start to understand what it's like to be st★rchild, everything at your fingertips, fame, real money, and you still order pizza for lunch! It's just that that twenty dollars is nothing to you. Nothing. I mean to me it's not much, but it's still something. To her it's nothing. Nothing! And she's got picture after picture lined up, if it wasn't this movie she was doing it would be another. Smoke rising from the ashtray. St★rchild twirling the cigarette. Pizza growing cold. Molecules of sausage and feta cheese slowing down, becoming less excited. That day we walked around Santa Monica drunk, after we ate at the seafood restaurant at the end of the dock, and we peed in a Denny's after Lancôme stopped the car for us on the way out of that place. My friend Jay was there with us, and he wanted to ingratiate himself with he st★rchild, trying to get her to rub his dick off. I just got a call from my doctor that my cholesterol levels are really high, they want me to go to the emergency room if I feel dizzy or anything. I don't know what to do about it. I like eating out with st★rchild and in general I like eating out. I might have to start exercising. Lancôme was really nice when we had to pee. Me and Jay and st★rchild ran into the Denny's and me and Jay were pissing next to each other in the stalls and he was talking like he was about to get st★rchild but I knew she was just for me. He was so confident, thinking his dick was going to get rubbed and discounting me. Why do they discount me? Like st★rchild couldn't be in love with me, like why isn't that the case. Like Jay Benton is more likely to get laid by the starlet than me. Producers. Who can trust them? I had to worry about Jay Benton suing me now, because I used his name and he was a real person. Some shallow little vamp from producer-land who was going to sue me now? I laughed. St★rchild was on my dick. She used to put peanut butter on it and then fuck it, sometimes jelly. She wasn't about to rub off Jay Benton's dick. That was his mistake. Sycophantic producer-ally. We might have got drunk with you that doesn't mean we're going home with you. Idiot. If I had a dime for every sycophantic wannabe producer that I've met. But yeah, we got drunk at the seafood restaurant and were looking at the sky smoking like what is this sky? What has it brought for us? Is it complete, with its whites and its blues? It was ultra-bright, a perfect California day. And there was a sleezer in there, he had no right to tag along with us, and his name was Jay, and I'd exterminate him if st★rchild didn't do it. I just invited him because I knew him from film school. What was wrong with that? But he didn't behave. He thought it was a pussy fest, when it wasn't. Lancôme made sure we made it to the car ok, she made sure the bill got paid 'cause we were all at the bar doing shots of Patron Silver. Jay bought, to impress us, but no one cared. We did one shot, two shot, three. Then it was using the bathroom at Denny's on the way back home. St★rchild lived in Venice, but we had to drop Jay in Hollywood. So it was a long drive with me, Jay, and st★rchild all in the backseat. I was in the middle, and Jay kept reaching his arm over me and touching st★rchild's shoulder, as she leaned on me. I wanted to sing, "Jay, you're not getting laid!" but he was off on some fantasy of the 40-year old Victoria Secret model he was fucking. It was all about the status. A Victoria's Secret model. Not that she was 40 years old, not that to tell his mother. The cholesterol thing really worried me, I didn't know what to do so I typed faster, knowing that my death might be unscheduled. Fucking st★rchild wasn't enough exercise for me, I had to run, or ride a bicycle, or something. There was an asshole in the living room and his name was Jay. He had faked being locked out of his apartment to spend more time with the st★rchild, and now we had him installed downstairs while st★rchild and I did massive lines of coke on the second floor, fooling around with each other's shit all the while. "What should we do with him? We can't keep him." "I know, we have to take him home. Have Lancôme take him." "He's saying he's waiting on a call from his roommate to be home." "Fuck the call. Drop his ass off on the sidewalk, he can hang out until his roommate gets home. We've dragged his ass too long today, already." "Ok. I'll talk to Lancôme." And yeah, Lancôme drove his ass home and he complained the whole way that he didn't have enough home support and he wasn't sure if his roommate would be there but it was all a bunch of bullshit he just wanted to hang out in the presence of a star a little bit longer. Was I like that? Not exactly. I was a star of my own, st★rchild didn't overpower me, I had done things. I hated when a motherfucker discounted what I had done. St★rchild never did that. A motherfucker like Jay, he would do it all day, let me ask him questions about his work and never reciprocate. Like there was nothing to ask about me. Asshole. He would have to go back to Louisiana, where he belonged, with Britney Spears' family and the whole backwater crew. The Jay Bentons of the world were a waste of time, doing nothing, nothing to show for years of schmoozing, I was sorry I had invited him. I felt this pang of film school familiarity, which made me want to give him a chance, but it was wasted. All he wanted was to get handjobs from superstars. Ten and zero, that's pretty good. There's this asshole on the couch that I want to kill. One of st★rchild's "friends" who came over a few nights ago and hasn't left. Smooching off the free food and drugs, which I wish she had never offered him but she has. He's doing lines in our bedroom! For god's sake, make the motherfucker do lines by the pool or something. But st★rchild knows him from way back, like when she was five or something. He used to get her drugs, before she could get them, and she feels obligated to him for life. Now the motherfucker just sits on our couch watching pig-head movies, meathead shit, television not fit for children, stuff nobody would want to watch unless they were a meathead motherfucker with no class. It offends my very sensibility, and this is where st★rchild and I differ. He's no problem to her. To me, his choice of cable shows is grounds enough for dismissal. Everybody's a starfucker. If your house isn't on the cover of a magazine you're hanging out with them, wishing you were famous. Is this me? Again, no, I'm an accomplished person, with my own life, it's just these cheeseheads who sit around on your couch all night with nowhere else to go. Can't you go back to your house? This is the type of question you want to pose, but you keep waiting around for him to ask it himself, but he never does. He's sitting there with no shirt on, sweating on the couch, and I know I shouldn't care because it's not my house, but I'm wondering how st★rchild possibly considers this douche to be her friend. Except she's lonely. Which I hate. Maybe that's part of the reason she's with me, because she's lonely. I want her to be fully capable, fully ok, before meeting me, so that I'm having a relationship with that fully ok person. But it isn't that way. I come to her where she is, lonely, fucked up, looking for not me but someone like me. I'm as tenuous as the motherfucker downstairs I just happen to live in the bedroom and it makes me want to go back to New York and forget this whole shit. I wish he'd stop smoking our cigarettes. Every morning I come down and there's an empty pack with this motherfucker sleeping on the couch, or sometimes still awake from all night. Watching racing, car racing for fuck's sake. I'd be more happy if he was watching Sesame Street. But no, it's Nascar, and I'm shielding my eyes from the TV as we say our good mornings and he asks me where more cigarettes are. Nascar. Please. It makes me feel like the house isn't mine (it isn't). But it makes me feel like I'm less welcome, that this motherfucker is camped out in the living room for days. Swims in his tighty whities. Requests pizza toppings instead of just going along with the choice of those who are actually paying for the pizza. I don't even want to say his name, to do so would be to honor him too much, he is nameless asshole on our couch. Bugging st★rchild to get him crystal meth, waiting around seeming days to see if he can get a yes. St★rchild and I leaving during the days and him being there when we get back home. A long day of filming, and you come home to a nameless asshole lounging on your couch. We're trying to finish a movie here. Some of us are trying to write a book. What are you doing? Watching TV? That's great. But I couldn't kick him out, it was st★rchild's house and she wanted him there, said he was in less trouble where she could keep an eye on him. Motherly instinct. The refrigerator emptied. Nothing left. This guy ate everything. It started to affect my writing. I knew when we went home this asshole was still going to be there, and I didn't want to have sex where he could hear so it was messing with me and st★rchild's love life. Finally she kicked him out. "Don't you have somewhere else to go?" "I can go home, I guess." She never got him crystal meth. He was going to have to find it on his own. Quel dommage. Another meth addict sent home to fuck up his life and everyone he knows. Pity. I had Lancôme steam clean the couch. Sent her out to buy all new groceries for the fridge. Made love to st★rchild nice and loud that night. Corinne was there but I didn't care if she heard us. She was part of the family. I spanked st★rchild's ass and stuck my penis in it. It was kind of a territory-marking thing. If your love life's not vital then how can your writing be vital? I needed to spank her, just like I needed to write good sentences. Now that what's-his-fucking-name was gone the house felt more secure. I started wondering what st★rchild and I were doing, was this a relationship? Would we be together for a long time? Should I move to LA? I didn't know how I could have a complete relationship with a nine-year-old but so far all the necessaries were present. Good sex. Good conversation. Good companionship. Who gives a shit about her age? It was all about experience. Could we get married? I didn't see that happening but it was worth questioning. Could I have kids with her? I had so far been against having kids with anyone but st★rchild seemed as likely a candidate as anyone, in my life. I sure knew how to cum in her. Maybe it would just happen, and we would be locked together with a child..like her last baby daddy and her were locked together? She didn't even tell me who it was. I never knew, even knowing her this long. She never saw him. Was I about to become that? More and more I wanted to pack up my duffel bag of stuff and go back to my city, settle back into the quiet life I had there. I was scared of st★rchild, really, scared of her fame and scared of her personality. I would have left already if she hadn't been so good for my writing. I wrote four thousand words a day when I was with her, twice what I wrote normally, and it seemed a pity to lose that. Some nights I'd wake up to Olive crying and st★rchild would be awake, too. We'd hear Corinne pick her up and st★rchild and I would just lie there in bed looking at each other. I thought she was thinking about making another baby (with me). That's sometimes what I thought of, lying there listening to her scream. We didn't make love on those nights, just looked at each other, and wondered what each other were thinking I guess. St★rchild did coke in the middle of the night; I woke up drinking. It was a real healthy situation, skipping breakfast to do our drugs of choice. And the situation with Olive continued. St★rchild wanted to cut her, but I convinced her to cut ourselves instead. We cut so much sometimes I would pass out because of the pain. We used our forearms. It didn't matter to st★rchild, they could cover up whatever they wanted to in post. She could have tattoos across her face and they'd remove them, a few cuts didn't matter. We started with razor blades but moved to a knife. It was a flat one, a solid rectangle, with the word "PAKISTAN" painted on the handle. I bought it at a pawn shop. St★rchild had requested that I go out and find us something suitable for cutting, and that's what I came back with. We would lick each other's blood after the cuts, and one time Corinne walked in on us, holding Olive. She stood in the doorway, watching. I think it expanded her world a little. Then st★rchild turned to look at Corinne and Corinne lowered her head and went away. "Is this deep enough?" "I think you can go deeper. But look, cut this way, you're scaring me." "You're getting scared?" "A little." "Do you want to stop?" "No, I just want you to cut this way." "Ok. Give me the knife." "What?" "You still have the knife. Give it to me." "Oh. Here." Then she'd cut me more deeply than ever before. I'd be gripping the carpet with my other hand, breathing in a measured way, trying to stay conscious. Then I'd look down and st★rchild was licking the blood off my arm. "Imagine if one of us had AIDS." "If one of us did, we both would by now, for multiple reasons." "I like sharing blood with you." "I like it too. Let's put some blood on your pussy and pretend you were a virgin." "You want to?" "Is that ok?" "You want to pretend that I'm a virgin?" "If that's ok." "Of course it's ok. I think it's sweet." So we did that. Mainly I got into the fact that we were getting bloodstains all over the bed and that we were gonna need to get a new one. The blood excited me, its Rorschach patterns on the futon cover. It made me feel like I was murdering someone, if you want the truth. I was more excited by the violence I could pretend I was inflicting on st★rchild than the idea of her being a virgin. We got so rough that one of her cuts reopened as I was grabbing her wrists, spreading her arms out, forcing her down. I was biting her neck, and hard, hard enough to break the skin, but she only squeezed her butt cheeks together and squeezed every part of her, to take the pain. I held ice on her neck later, while we watched TV, my legs wrapped around her, me sitting on the couch, her sitting on the floor. Corinne was really our only witness to the cutting and other bathroom stuff. She would walk around with Olive and catch us in the middle of our "activities." Even Lancôme wasn't really aware of it. By the time she showed up we would be sufficiently covered that you couldn't see the cuts, and a bite mark on st★rchild's neck was hardly grounds for worry. You came to expect such things from a child star..who would she be without bite marks on her neck? You expected that she did coke..how couldn't you? She had makeup people to cover up things like bite marks. Just get to the set a little early, and someone takes care of it. She was like a shivering animal when I bit her, some tiny creature that had to endure its lot, and did so by constricting every muscle available to her. I could feel her squeeze her vagina when I bit down, squeezing down on me, inside her. But she took it. She wanted to be bitten, she wanted the pain. I didn't enjoy giving it to her, except that she liked it. Well, maybe in a weird way I did enjoy it, but it wasn't like fun enjoyment. It was one more step removed, more of an intellectual enjoyment, seeing her squeeze down like that. I just knew that we were perfect together, after doing something like this. We were both brutal, and that brutality fit together. I wasn't sure I'd find someone so into such a wide array of fun as she was. Rape-fucking. In-character rape fantasies, with no safeword. Those thrilled me the most. Not-knowing, for a minute, whether st★rchild really wanted me to stop or not. Nothing made me harder. I'd seen on TV that some people can only get excited through violence, not sex per-se, and I started to wonder if I was one of those. But I wasn't. It was just that violence excited me too. Searing down on st★rchild's neck, biting her as hard as I possibly could, even messing up my jaw afterward. Biting into her arteries, smashing them. Something about her being damageable. That she wouldn't last forever, and I got to be there for some of the damaging. I liked that idea. It fit with the idea that there is no god and that we're just stuck on this planet to fend for ourselves. That we're limited. Broken. Breaking. "Don't you think we were broken from the day we met?" "What?" "I mean from the very first day, in the alley, don't you think we were broken then?" "What are you talking about?" "About how we're broken." "You think too much, baby." That was st★rchild. I turned over to my laptop, trying to get this right. We were broken from day one. Right? Yes, we were. We were fucked from the beginning, bound to destroy each other in some way or another. She was destroying me because she was nine years old. I was destroying her because I fed into her sick habits, my imagination found them exciting, delightful, nothing wrong with trying something new. But I was encouraging her, in ways she didn't need encouraging. I lent credence to her practices, even had in the Olive hymen situation. Which I shouldn't have done, because that shit just ain't right. But I was fascinated to watch a mother who owned the child so much, who felt she had the right to do whatever she wanted to her baby, there was something primal about it, like how a lion mother might treat her babies, complete ownership. This book is dedicated to the run-on comma sentence. Ultra-violence. Have you ever watched Se7en on acid? It changes you. There's a certain flash-ness of the images that burns into you. Never leaves you. I had that kind of murder scene view into st★rchild's bedroom, with the blood on her futon and us playing "look who I found, time to rape you now" among other games. Thought sometimes I would wake up and find st★rchild dead right next to me, from accidentally bleeding herself out during a cutting session. All that sticky-icky blood. Then Corinne and Olive and I would be the family, and it would be dismal. I liked our pool days the best, when everything was bright and lovely and s. and I just fucked normally (oral, missionary, doggy) and then came back to the pool area refreshed and played with the baby. S.'s movie was nearing completion and we all wanted something to do. S. suggested we get our nails done and I suggested we go to St. Martin, so we decided to do both. S. said that getting your "hooves" and "paws" done was one of the greatest things you could do for yourself and I had never had a manicure or pedicure so I said yeah. "You've never had your toes done?" "No." "Or your fingers?" "Nope. Neither one. New experience." "We have to go today." Her movie wasn't over yet but she finagled some time out of the director so we could go mani/pedi ourselves. St★rchild took me to a Beverly Hills salon. It was just the two of us, plus Lancôme and two bodyguards. "Pick your color!" St★rchild encouraging me at these racks of nail polish. "Is this black?" "Don't be boring. You're getting black?" "I like black." "I think this one is better for you." She holds up a sparkly blue one, glitter in it. "I don't think so." "Well get it on your feet, at least. I'll suck your toes if you get this one." "I think black fits me better." "Wimp." St★rchild turns her back to me and picks out color. "I need to go on a major diet." "No you don't. Look at you." "No, but look right here. And here?" "You look fine." "Maybe by your standards." "What's that supposed to mean?" "You think as long as it has a pussy and it moves—" "No I don't. I have very high standards. Give yourself some credit. Do you know how long it was before I dated you, that I dated someone else?" "You're dating yourself right now." "By using the word 'date'? Yeah, I know. Get over it. We're not all nine." "You're my cool daddy. You got your color?" "Yeah." "I'm going with this one, what do you think?" "It's nice." "Yeah?" "Yeah. What do we do now?" "I can help you now," says this woman. "Are these your colors? Beautiful, and—very nice. Have a seat right over here. Do you want to sit next to each other?" "Yes please." "And who is this?" "This is Lancôme, she'll be taking notes." "And them?" "Guys! Sit down. You're making her nervous. That's Tony, and that's Brad." "They work for you?" "They're my bodyguards." "Oh, excellent!" And the foot technicians are already coming to work on us, sitting on short stools and taking off my shoes, socks, moisturizing my feet and applying many levels of gook to them, I lose track, even though I'm asking questions, of what is happening to my feet and legs. At one point they are massaging us and all I can do is capture postcards of the technician's face and think about fucking her. She has small breasts, her bra almost overpowers them. I look over at st★rchild. She has a magazine and is utilizing the massage feature of the chair she's sitting in. I pick up my controller and select a lower back routine. "Lancôme, I want you to get me an international cell phone. Or make this one work from St. Martin. Whatever. And I want you to oversee Corinne's preparation for the trip. Make sure she has enough diapers for a week, or make it ten days, just in case. Remind me to pump between now and the trip, I don't want to be breastfeeding her down there. You'll help me remember, too, right? Won't you?" "To pump?" I say. "Yes. You have to help me think of it because I'll forget. I want to have frozen milk because I'm not going to be breastfeeding her on the island. Oh, you think I'm really going to like it?" "You'll love it. I've been there twice. It's an amazing island, very non-tourized for the Caribbean." "Ok. Lancôme. I also want entertainment for Corinne. Get her an iPad or something she can watch movies on, something that works down there, I'm not going to be hanging out with her and Olive the whole time I'm down there, she's going to be stuck in her room at night." "I think we should get her some time out and about." "Ok. One night you and I'll stay in and watch Olive. Corinne watches her the rest of the time. That's good. Get Corinne some time out and about. Good call." "Thank you." I go back to enjoying being massaged by this Asian woman with small breasts and they're painting st★rchild's toes and she's saying, "Make sure you get the edges. Last time I came here they didn't get the edges." St★rchild bends down and handles the brush. "Like this. See? Get it all the way to the edge. If they don't do it I'm not paying them," she says to me. "Lancôme. I'm serious. Don't pay these motherfuckers if they don't get it all the way to the edge." They're painting my toes now. "Get it all the way to the edge on his, too, dammit! See this?" St★rchild is tapping on my foot tray. "See that nail? It's not all the way to the edge! Paint it right or I'm going to shit on you. Don't worry, baby, they'll get you right," she says to me. "I'm not worried." "You wouldn't be, since your standards are so low, but it matters that they get it to the edge. Otherwise your whole toe isn't painted, and it's like, what the fuck. You know what I'm saying?" Then we're onto the manicure and I'm walking in these foam sandals with separator bridges between my toes. Lancôme sits next to st★rchild, then it's me. Tony and Brad are sitting in the waiting area, reading fashion magazines, their huge arms flipping flimsy pages, legs set wide apart. "Lancôme, it's important that you get the phone thing worked out. I can't be down there with no phone. And no new number, either, I want people to be able to call me on this number, ok? And make sure Corinne packs a swimsuit. And tanning lotion. That girl is so white she's gonna burn if we go out for a day! What else? What else? I think we're ready?" "We're ready." "You're not ready, you need to buy a swimsuit. And buy some new clothes, all you have is two pairs of the same pants and like three t-shirts. You're embarrassing me." "I'm sorry!" "It's ok, just buy some pants or shorts or whatever. We'll go after this. I know you like to pack light but this is ridiculous. You need more than a laptop to be comfortable." The technician puts my hand up to a tiny fan, and I hold it there. She paints my other hand. I'm going to get to show st★rchild one of my favorite places on the planet. This is going to be good. No Lancôme. No bodyguards. Just her and me and Corinne and Olive. We can do diving. We can do boat tours. We can swim in the ocean. There's even a nude beach there that I think st★rchild will love, The Orient Bay. Or Baie Orientale, in French, which that half of the island is. The flight out was wonderful. We went from LA to Atlanta to SXM. The Atlanta-SXM flight was beautiful. Skies like you wouldn't believe. And the beginning of that true blue water. The St. Martin airstrip just barely fits on the island. When you're flying toward it it's like: we're going to hit that? But you do, you do, you touch down nice and easy and you know you're on the island. Island time, island food, island people. We went in the spring which isn't one of their busy times. When we got off the plane and collected our luggage, Corinne and Olive and me and st★rchild stood in the car rental area and were the only ones there. Men from behind their booths shouted at us to use their service, but in the end we had to choose just one so we made the choice sort of arbitrarily and just went with it. They brought the car around and the guy helped us load our luggage into the back. Corinne and Olive sat in the back. I drove, and st★rchild sat next to me. We were staying at the Grand Case Beach Club and I drove us there along the one thin road that circles the island. It's an island with a lagoon in the middle, and some places the land is so thin between the two bodies of water that you could throw a rock from one to the other. The island is half French, half Dutch, and when you cross from one side to the other there are no checkpoints, just a little wooden sign stuck in the sand that says "French side" or "Dutch side." It was nice to be with Corinne and Olive and st★rchild alone. We had had a little trouble in Atlanta with st★rchild being recognized, but managed to handle it without security. On the plane from Atlanta to SXM we sat in the way back and nobody had recognized her (or if they did they didn't make any trouble about it). So far in SXM, we had been in the open and no one had said a thing. At the Grand Case, the man at the desk had looked like he might recognize her (I caught a glance) but he didn't say anything, just checked us in and had a concierge take the bags to our rooms. We had two rooms, one for Corinne and Olive and one for me and st★rchild. Both faced the ocean and the nude beach I had mentioned earlier. St★rchild tipped the concierge and we were all standing in me and st★rchild's room. "Well, don't you want to see your room?" Corinne carried Olive in to the next room, which was exactly the same as ours except a mirror image. Corinne put Olive down on the bed and went to the windows, floor-to-ceiling glass that gave you the maximum possible view. "Are you ok in this room?" st★rchild asked. "Yes. St★rchild this is beautiful. Thanks for letting me come along." "Of course. I wouldn't leave my Olive behind for a week!" "Well, thank you." "Let's all take a moment and then we'll meet you for a walk on the beach and..can we get some dinner out there?" "Yes, there's a bar/restaurant thing a ways down, we can walk there from here." "So, we'll come get you in, what, half an hour?" "Sounds good." "Sounds good. Wait." "What?" "Do you have to be nude on the nude beach?" "No, you don't have to. Go with what makes you comfortable." "Ok." "See you in half an hour." St★rchild went back to our room. St★rchild didn't have any menstrual blood to drink so I settled for slamming her head against the wall a few times and licking her bruises while my penis was inside of her. We heard Olive cry, through the wall, and I asked st★rchild if she was going to be ok leaving Corinne alone with Olive sometimes so we could have private dinners and jaunts. "Yeah, I'm fine with it. I trust Corinne by now. We just have to make sure Corinne's taken care of, like she had pizza or something to eat while we're out fancin' it up." "She can order room service." "True. Is it good here?" "I don't know, I never stayed here before." "Looks alright." "What kind of TV do they get here?" "Island TV." "So no IFC?" "No." "Well, she'll have to get used to it." "It's kind of cool, like the radio here, you get all these island mixes of rappers you've heard of, but they'll never play this song in the States." "Oh, cool. Are you going naked to dinner?" "Yeah, are you?" "Yeah. Fuck my ass. Fuck it, baby, I want to make sure I have all the shit pumped out of there by the time I'm sitting down for dinner naked." So I fucked her ass. There wasn't any shit in there. She just liked saying that for the effect. We showered together before we went out, and I was pressing her breasts together so I could suck both nipples at once and she was grabbing my dick and trying to get a finger up my ass. "Stop. Moving so I can get you." "You're a fucking ass pirate. Is this the ass pirate side of the island?" "Stop moving, I'm gonna stick this finger up your ass before we go to dinner." So I turned around and leaned over on the side of the shower, stuck my butt out nice and plump so she could get it. She inserted the finger. Squirmed it around. Pulled it out. "Was there any shit on it?" "A little." "Liar." "Look!" I turned around and there was in fact the tiniest bit of shit on her finger. I put my fingers back around to check my ass, wash it off a little. She held the finger out to me, by my mouth. I licked my lips and opened them. She stuck her finger in. I closed my mouth and she pulled her finger out, and it didn't make me gag this time, just extra saliva running, I licked that finger and swallowed that shit like a champ. St★rchild was proud of me, she started promising all these special treats for after dinner. "Then I'm gonna let you fuck me rodeo style, which is really wild west style but with me on top, and I'm gonna let you bite me until I bleed and I'll even cut you a little if you want us to both lick your blood and then I'll shock you with the telephone wires on your nipples and the tip of your dick. We'll make love in the stairwell, and busboys will see us while bringing up their trays. Then I'll suck on your scrotum and finger-fuck you till your dick get real hard, then I'll squish my soft little pussy around you and make you cum." "Do you even know if they use the same voltages on telephone wires here as in the States?" "You're so international: 'the States.' Do I guess they could be different, huh?" "They might be higher." "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" She rubs her nose in my face. We're dry now, lying on the bed with no clothes on. It's one of those imperial moments, one of those grand moments with no equal, lying on a bed in the Grand Case with each other, everything's taken care of. Baby is taken care of, st★rchild and I got to play out some fun in the shower before dinner, that was great. The rooms are paid for, on my dime, this is my trip, my chance to show st★rchild some of how I live. She seems to be liking it so far. "Baby are you having a good time so far?" "Let's go to dinner. Is this place good?" "It's ok. The best restaurants are in Marigot, the capital of the French side. But this one is in walking distance, and we can eat naked, so I was thinking this for our first night?" "Whatever you say. I'm off this week, I'm doing whatever you say." "Good. I hope you relax." "I am relaxed, baby." "Good. You want to get Corinne?" "Yeah. Can we walk out of the hotel naked?" "Hell yeah we can. This hotel's on Baie Orientale, you can be naked anywhere around here." "Sweet. So we're ready to go? You got money?" "Got it. You don't have to take anything." "Weird, I'm so used to carrying my cell phone in LA, it's like an essential." "Won't even work here." "Weird." I close the door. We're knocking on Corinne's and she answers. "We're ready." Corinne has her swimsuit on. "Do I have to go naked?" "No, darling," st★rchild says to her. "You do whatever you want. You look good. Where's my baby?" Corinne hands her to st★rchild. She's wearing a diaper. "Good baby! Have you been giving Corinne a hard time? Here. Take her." Corinne closes her door and takes the baby. We all go down the hall, st★rchild's pert breasts being the most visible feature among us, Corinne's body looks fine through her swimsuit, and I'm hanging out there, hoping st★rchild doesn't do anything to make me hard. You can walk straight from the hotel onto the beach, and it's late afternoon island time by the time we get there. We walk along this long beach, with the sky's color fading, and there are people playing frisbee, kicking a soccer ball, people lounging in chairs, people running, people walking. Most naked, not all. The thing about nude beaches is everyone jokes about them being full of beautiful women, but in reality they're full of a bunch of whole, real people, men and women, big and small, children, adults, and it's not all pretty what you see. We came to the hut where I wanted us to eat dinner, mostly a seafood place, with a bar, and even the servers and bartenders are naked, which took me some getting used to the first time. "Is this gonna be weird for you two?" "No, I love it." "Corinne?" "Fine with me." We go in and seat ourselves. The server recognizes st★rchild. You can tell just by the way she's looking at her. After the server leaves I ask st★rchild, "Is this gonna be ok?" "Yeah, so far so good. Could you tell she knew me?" "Yeah, by her look." "Well, it's not a crime. As long as we don't run into any crowds, I'm ok with it. This is the life I chose." "Ok baby." We order, st★rchild and I both taking alcoholic mixed drinks from the bar. Everyone gets something different (seafood). Corinne has a small baby bag with her and it contains pumped milk from st★rchild, which Corinne feeds Olive, and Olive is relatively quiet. People who commit violent crimes are most often physiologically "normal," meaning they're not "mentally ill." You would think that in the colloquial that someone who commits a violent crime must be "mentally ill," because they're doing something abnormal, evil, wrong. But that's not the way it is. Violent people are most often normal, mentally, and mentally ill people are most often nonviolent. It's strange. "Do you like your drink?" St★rchild smiles. I see her really smile, and it's the first time since we met that I see her like this, off, on vacation, on break. I bet it helps being able to leave the house without being too recognized. And even here, our server's being nice, she didn't say anything. If she told people she works with, they haven't come over or started staring at us. We just got to eat dinner like a happy family, in this cheap seafood place with naked servers and great bar drinks. St★rchild and I are getting tipsy by the time we finish our dinners. "Marco?" "Polo!" "Marco?" "Polo!" We're pretending to play Marco Polo in the booth. Corinne, instead of rolling her eyes, focuses on the baby. St★rchild has her bare toes on my dick and I have my big toe stuck inside her, wriggling it around. "You've been here three times?" "This is the third." "I don't believe I've never been here." "You've been to other islands down here." "Yes but this is so—it's less commercialized." "Believe it or not." "It's still commercialized." "Yes, but." "But not as much. It's wonderful. Thank you for bringing me here." "You're welcome. This is just the beginning. When we hit the restaurants in Marigot I guarantee you'll love them. They're idyllic." "I believe it." "And there's this little low-key breakfast place I like to go over there, they serve fresh bread with everything, it's.." St★rchild grabs my hand. "It's wonderful. Thank you." "Everyone needs a break." "No doubt. You don't realize how much you need a break from the place that you live until you leave. That's what I was doing in New York when I met you, but even there things get crazy for me, I have to travel with Tony and Brad." "I think things are going to be ok down here, for a week." "It's nice to just be able to..let my hair down, you know? Sit in a fucking bar and not be bothered. Look at us! We're sitting in a bar and no one's bothering us! Get me another drink." "Yes, ma'am." I wave down our server. "Another—what was this?" "No, I want to try the Blue Crush this time." Our server gives an extra special smile to st★rchild. "You got it. For you?" "I'll try a Blue Crush as well." "Great. Thank you." "Thank you! She's so nice. And I get to look at her boobies all night." Corinne smiles. "What? You smiled?! That's the first time today!" "Are you sure you don't want a drink?" "Not while I'm taking care of her." "Good woman. Looking out for my baby. But have a drink later, after she falls asleep. Order from room service. I hate to think of your being totally sober the whole time you're on this beautiful island, ok, get a drink later." "Ok." "You will?" "Yes, I will." "Good girl." "Order anything you want off room service," I add. "Yeah," st★rchild says. "It's all on sugar daddy this week, so go crazy." "I will," Corinne says. "Good. Good. I wanna do some jet skiing this week, will you come along?" St★rchild looks skeptical. "Am I big enough to run one?" "You can ride with me if not. We'll check it out at the place." "Aww, baby, I might not be big enough to run one!" "Ok, don't worry about it. We'll check it out at the place." "I don't want to ruin your fun!" "Will you stop, you're not ruining my fun!" "Here are your drinks." "Thank you." "Thanks." "Isn't Blue Crush a movie?" "Yes, I think that's what this is named after." "Oh my god I'm drunk. You got me drunk. What were you thinking?" "I was thinking, let's get st★rchild drunk!" "I like you drunk," Corinne says. "Why, because I'm nicer?" "No you just seem to be having..fun." "Well I am, I am, thanks to this one." She squirms my penis with her toes. I jam my toe up into her farther. "I'm going to fuck you with my thumb later tonight," I say. "Puss or ass?" "Puss." Corinne's head lowers. "Better had said puss. You need to give my pussy more attention." "More attention?" "Yes. Corinne, forgive him, he just likes to talk about sex stuff just to make you uncomfortable, I think." "I'm not uncomfortable," Corinne says, quietly, and I think she's right. Corinne had her head on straight about her job, she's not going to get pulled to the side by me and st★rchild discussing sex stuff. We drink our drinks and it's dark outside by the time we leave the seafood hut, walking nakedly home by the lights they've set out to keep the beach lit at night, walking back to our hotel. We walk in the part where the water is just lapping at your feet, where the sand is hard, and it's far away from the lights so it's still dark for us. The beach has cleared, mostly, but there are still people sitting in chairs, making out to the starlight, and even a kid, here, playing in the sand. We walk in through the hotel lobby naked, except for Corinne and Olive, and go up the elevator back to our rooms. "So this is goodnight. Do you have everything you need?" Corinne says, "Yes." "Knock if you need anything. Goodnight Olive." St★rchild kisses Olive on the face. Olive has a proper name. St★rchild does not. The only reason st★rchild is being capitalized here is that it's at the beginning of a sentence. "Goodnight!" "Goodnight." Then st★rchild and I click ourselves shut inside our room and I'm not sure which sex games we're going to play out first. Maybe the one with my thumb up her pussy. But st★rchild sits me down on the balcony and pours out a glass of Bacardi 151 that we bought downstairs. She kneels in front of me, her knees on the concrete balcony, and hands me the glass of 151. She puts her hands on my thighs and goes down to my dick. I lie back and sip the 151. She gets me hard, and I'm up in her mouth. She's bobbing her head and I'm feeling that point of no return. I put one hand on her head, my other holding the glass of 151, and cum in her mouth, squirting upward into the st★rchild's throat, unbearable, perfect. "Now I wanna do you." But she has me coming to the bed, and she's wrapping me in covers, and she's naked, next to me, and I know I'm going to fall asleep. That night I had dreams about blood, and dreams about devils, it was like the questions they ask when trying to determine if you're schizophrenic, do you see things other people don't see? Devils? Yes, I'm seeing devils. I see painted carnival-looking flats like on plywood and they have red and white outlines around them. Always the funky face. Is it unnatural? What if I wake up sweating next to st★rchild? Will she know I'm diseased? How much mental anguish can I take before being revealed to my closests as a criminal? For all st★rchild's wickedness does she not know that I loved when she pricked a small piece out of Olive's hymen with that pencil, that abusing that child more is the first thing I want to do? I want to be the one holding the pencil—you spread her lips. If we can get Corinne out of the hotel and get a few moments alone with Olive..order ice from room service and put it in the baby's nipples, on her face, on her cunt. See how she reacts to cold. Two and eight. See if she cries or cries in delight as an ice cube gets dragged down her cunt. Lick it first. Make sure the frost is off. Want a smooth ice cube running down her front. This is what I dream of, in fever dreams, st★rchild. Abusing your baby the same as you want to, getting poor Olive to smoke a cigar before she can even talk, before she can walk. Let's get her to smoke pot with us. Will have to find some, but I'm sure I can do that, down here. Just walk along the beach looking for the smell, you can always make friends on an island. Three and seven. Scoring pot on the beach in St. Martin; not a problem. Finding swingers to play off of me and st★rchild: even easier. Just swim in the ocean a bit, swingers will approach you. I had dreams of blood on the walls of our hotel room, of waking to find st★rchild's vagina bleeding profusely, all over everything, even though she was dead, lying there still. I came to the walls, rubbed my fingers in it, looking back at the corpse on the bed, and rubbed it into the wall further, further spreading the mess. I dared to leave the room, leaving the door open for anyone to see, and I went next door to Corinne and Olive's room, hoping for the best. I could never quite get the door open, though, because my fears were that Olive and Corinne would lie still on the bed, both cold and dead. When I tried to open that door I woke, sitting up in bed next to st★rchild and my sheets drenched in sweat. No blood on the walls. I put on a bathrobe and walked into the hall. Went to Corinne's door, put my ear to it. Didn't hear anything. Tried the door. It was unlocked. I want in and saw Corinne sleeping on one bed, Olive placed right in the middle of the other. Everyone sleeping fine. I thought about raping Corinne but it didn't seem like a good idea, and I ended up wandering to the hotel lobby and finding their restaurant, which was still open with a late night menu, and I ordered some snails and put it on the room charge. When I went back st★rchild was still asleep, and I slipped between damp sheets and looked up at the ceiling, hoping to fall asleep. But I didn't. I was half awake until morning. And over breakfast, which we took on the balcony, I was nervous about Olive and Corinne, and had to hold my mouth shut from saying anything about it. They came into our room after breakfast, totally fine, and I slapped myself for worrying just because of a dream. But it was more than that. I wanted to abuse Olive more, I saw the logic in it, I was perfectly aligned with st★rchild in wanting to mess her up further, we had never fed her shit and it was begging to be done. You could probably teach a child her age to like the taste of shit, she's so young, she's still learning how to taste. And I knew we were going to do something else, because I knew that when st★rchild started I wouldn't stop her. So I ate breakfast with a tear, for Olivia, and when Corinne brought her in and we all held her it was like a benediction, knowing that a curtain had closed around Olivia and she was going to grow up the devil of her mother, amassed in hate, and flowing with a counter morality. She was her mother's child, and mine, in a way, and in this case freaky parents were going to lead to an even freakier child. I tried to imagine her as a teenager, and couldn't. That day we went to Marigot, and wandered the shops. Mainly stuff aimed at tourists, a liquor store with everything under the sun, a tiny cigar shop also boasting infinite varieties. St★rchild looked at clothes in a shop by the water, and she helped me pick out a shirt which looked island-ey, which I still have and love. I picked out a cigar, and st★rchild wanted one too, so we got two James Bond 007 cigars, which I think the shop owner was laughing at us for, but we got them anyway. St★rchild's pussy blood was all over the side of the shop by the time we left. We ate lunch by the water, in a place called Bon Chance. We all sat at one table. Corinne fed Olive some of the lobster sauce. I wore my new shirt and st★rchild had on a whole new outfit. St★rchild had offered to buy Corinne whatever she wanted but Corinne declined. In the afternoon we took a boat trip around the island, during which we were able to view the many beaches, and we saw another island close by—I forget its name. There were people jet skiing and I said, "I want to do that." "I know you do. Corinne, we're going to try to go jet skiing this afternoon, watch Olive at the hotel. Do you think she'll take a nap?" "She might." "Well try to nap her. And don't feed her shit or anything. That's my job. Did I say that?" The boat powered its way 'round to another beach. "What beach is this?" "That's Baie Rouge, one of the nicest beaches on the island." "Baie Rouge." I almost ask st★rchild what language she took in high school but then realize she's never been to high school. I took French. After the boat tour we drop Corinne off at the hotel and drive back down to Marigot, where the jet skis start. The man says st★rchild is too small to drive her own. "Then can she ride with me?" "One person per jet ski." I start to say something else but st★rchild butts in. "Let me handle this. Do you know who I am? I'm st★rchild. I don't know who you think you are but I'm going to ride this jet ski today and you're going to let me. I'll sign a waiver. But I'm not going to be turned away while my boyfriend gets to ride one and I don't. Let's make up a waiver. If I get hurt I don't sue you or anything. Gimme that pen. Here. Write out some words. Make it say whatever you want it to say. I won't sue you, etc. Is that enough? Will that make you happy? I knew from the moment I saw you that you were a pain in the ass gatekeeper who thinks the rules are more important than people's happiness. You're on an island. You run a business to make people happy. I'm a person. I want to be happy. Will you let me find my happiness or are you just going to stand there gatekeeping like a nail in a board. Do you have a girlfriend? I bet she's as cardboard as your dumb ass. Sign that. Go ahead. See? I made it say: I won't do shit. If I crash. There. Put your sig down motherfucker. I've had about enough of this part of the ride. St★rchild motherfucker. St★rchild. You're gonna give me a hard time? Please. There. There's your pen. Now show us to the jet skis." "Would you like to take part in our safety training, miss?" "No, we don't want to take part in your safety training, we want to ride the fucking ride." "Very good. Let me get you your lifejackets and in your case may I suggest a helmet?" St★rchild wore the helmet. She made a huge stink about it with the guy who was helping us, then I asked her nicely and she put it on. The speed was controlled by the handles so even as short as she was, st★rchild could reach the controls. There were timers on our dashboards that showed how much of our half hour was remaining. They started us up and we trolled out to sea like a couple of regular tourists. I revved mine a couple times and st★rchild got mad. "Wait till we're both ready." "Ok. Are you ready yet?" "No." I'd rev again. "Stop!" "Baby, are you having a good time?" "Yes." "Because back there with that guy." "That? I was just fucking around. Don't take everything so seriously." Then she got ready, and told me, and we went fast on our skis. St★rchild was getting bumped up off the seat when she hit even small whitecaps. "Hold on!" "I am!" she screamed, totally happy. Hugest smile on her face. Getting bounced around by the waves and barely holding on to the jet ski, like a maniac. "Let's go even faster!" I heard her shout, and we did. Just shooting straight out into the sea, and I started thinking about sharks and whales and stuff, big things that could kill us, and I wanted to go back to the shallow water but st★rchild just kept on going, out, and out, and out. She stopped after a while, and I was bumping up beside her, and I reached out and she grabbed my hand. I had my foot on her jet ski and she had her foot on mine. "This place is beautiful. Thank you for taking me here." "I'm glad you got on a jet ski." "Oh I was gonna get on a jet ski, one way or another, if we had to steal 'em I was gonna get on one." I laugh. "I'm serious. Hey." "What?" "When we get back I want to do something new to Olive." She looks at me, trying to read my face. "I want to, too." "You do? Yippee!" "But nothing bad." "Nothing..too bad." I laugh. "I mean we're not going to do anything bad to her, we're just going to do something to her." "Like eating shit." "That's what I was thinking! But..I don't know if that's good enough. Like. I was thinking of cutting her. Just on her arm," st★rchild adds. "Maybe her foot?" "I was thinking arm would be the less damaging over time?" "How deep?" St★rchild shrugs. "It's just an idea. We don't have to do that. But something." "I agree. So make this Corinne's night out?" "Yeah, I'll give her some money, tell her to go buy some clothes and get dinner. Maybe she'll meet someone." "Corinne? Not likely." "We'll give her the car, ok, so she can come back here or go wherever?" "Fine with me. We could get Olive drunk." "That's a good idea. Get her shitfaced, see if she does anything funny." "We don't want to ruin her brain, though." "No, but it doesn't take much alcohol to get an infant shitfaced." "I'm just saying, her brain is still developing." "So is yours." "But I mean, like, at a rapid pace." "I'm kinda settling on cutting her." "Ok." "But the bad part is, just like tattoos, it's hard to get just one. I'm worried we won't be able to stop." "Look! Twenty minutes left. Let's ride around!" "Ok, sexy." So we swirl off, going in circles and ultimately heading back to the shallower areas. "You can see all the way to the bottom!" "It's amazing!" "Go fast!" St★rchild jerks off, fast, forward, and I follow her. We wind out the rest of our time near the inlet where we came from. "Corinne's night out!" "Corinne's night out!" We're singing. "Time's up." The clocks run to zero and we're scooting back into the dock area. When we got back st★rchild knocked on Corinne's door and I heard the beginning of st★rchild giving Corinne the rundown on tonight's activities, Corinne taking the car and everything. Then st★rchild came back to me and we were both sitting on the balcony smoking James Bond 007s and drinking rum out of our bathroom water glasses. I could see partway up st★rchild's shorts and her white and pink panties and I said, "Why don't you take your clothes off?" She did, she stripped down like she was taking an order. "Leave the panties on." Then she was sitting on my lap and unbuttoning my shirt, playing with my nipples. She got my cock hard and took off my swimsuit, pouring rum down my chest and licking it off where it flowed around my cock. Then she would put me in her mouth, just for a second, and it was heavenly, a perfect way to spend an afternoon. I laid her down on the table and took off her panties, then poured gin right over her puss, licking upward on her lips to suck off some of the rum. St★rchild grabbed her cigar and smoked with her head lying off the table while I did this to her, and I was afraid she'd get ash in her eye. "Does this sting you?" "Not right now." I stood up and pressed my dick into her, just fucking her on the balcony, anyone could be watching, and I fucked her so that we both came, and st★rchild had to drop her cigar in the concrete floor, she was making fists with her hands, gripping. Then I came in her, pumped her full of cum, conditioning her pussy, and I was soft and pulled out and went in to lie on the bed. St★rchild followed, closing the balcony door, and it was the two of us in air conditioning, juices dripping out of us. "Did you give Corinne the keys?" "Yes. She's gonna bring us Olive around five." "Goodnight." "Goodnight." We draped the bedspread up over us from the sides, so that we were lying on it and under it. It was a thin blue bedspread, nothing like the nasty puffy bedspreads found in the States. When Corinne knocked on the door it was 5:30. St★rchild and I both wrapped in bathrobes and I opened the door. "Hello!" "Hello!" How was your afternoon?" "Good, we've just been layin' around. How was yours?" "Good. She's been sleeping a lot so she might be awake for you tonight." "Here, baby." "And..I'm leaving you my room key in case you need any of the baby stuff, but I made you a little care package with some essentials in it." "Thank you. How thoughtful." "Thank you, Corinne. I hope you have a good night out. Stay late if you like, we'll be up so you can get your key back." "Meet someone," st★rchild says. "Here's some money." St★rchild hands Corinne the $400 she stacked up earlier. "Buy clothes." As soon as she's out the door we're placing Olive on the bed, stripping off her one-piece, her diaper, her socks. We dive into her, kissing and blooching and whispering in her ears. "Baby baby baby!" "Oh Olive!" "We love you Olive!" "Hello Olive!" "Now what are we gonna do?" "Shit bath!" "Ok, but where are we gonna get the shit?" "We wait till she poops!" "No way, do you have to take a shit? I don't want to be waiting here all night." "Do you have to shit?" "No." "Could you force one?" "No!" "We could cut her in the meantime." "No, I wanna do one thing only, I don't want to have complicated regimen. But I like shit bath. I suppose we could wait." "We'll feed her, to make sure she's processing down there. Gimme that." I take the canister of solid food from st★rchild and start shoveling it down Olive's face. "We want you to shit for us, baby!" "Can you shit for us?" Then it was just watching TV hoping for one of to have to take a shit because shit bath was the hands-down winner for our evening activity. We put Olive's diaper back on, partially. Finally she shat. "Pick it up!" "Here, get the diaper!" We put it in the bathtub and ran the water. "If you have to shit we can add it to it!" "Yes, if you have to shit just shit right in the water!" We all got naked and were handing Olive back and forth in the bathtub, holding her up so that if she had to shit it would squirt right down into the water. Her little shit got disintegrated by the movement of the water, and it was just a brown water bath for while. Then st★rchild, and finally I, was able to shit. St★rchild's came out in this curved solid, quite petite, and mine came out diarrhea-ey and chunky, I think because of the rum. I touched st★rchild's, pinched it into two pieces, and admired it. It was well-formed, solid, just the size of her tiny bowel. "Your shit is beautiful." "So is yours, in its own way." "You don't mind that I'm so..explosive?" "It's you, what can I say? It's you." St★rchild dipped baby Olive into the water, and Olive kicked. "This is a shit bath with me and daddy. Look at her kick! Ah! You're getting it in my eyes, baby, that can't be healthy. Take her." I take Olive and st★rchild wipes her eyes with the back of a hand. "It's pretty much everywhere now." "Let's dip her under. Just for a second. Swim her." "Ok." I start handing Olive back to st★rchild but st★rchild says, "You do it." "You ready to go underwater?" she seems to say yes with her eyes. She's a happy baby. "Ok, here we go." I adjust her in my arms and swoop her under the water between me and st★rchild. Then she's up! and out! and st★rchild's wiping her face with a washcloth that has shit on it and I'm handing the baby back over to st★rchild. "You called me daddy. A minute ago, with Olive." "Did I?" "Yes, you did." "How did it feel?" "It felt good. I do think of her as yours and mine, even though she's not." "She's more yours than that piece of shit." "Well, I like our little threesome. Is there still time to get Olive drunk?" "Yeah, let's shower first." "Should we drain this first?" "No, just..turn on the shower and let it drain, we'll get everybody clean. We should get new towels, too." "Yeah, I noticed there was shit on the washcloth you were using to wipe Olive's face a second ago." "Oh, gross. Yeah. We'll get new towels." "Are just going to send down these shitty towels?" "Fuck 'em! Who cares. Yes, we're going to send down shitty towels. It's none of their business!" I didn't want to make it into an argument, so I backed off, and the three of us took a long shower and got all the way clean, clean in every button and crack. I tried feeding Olive from our large rum bottle but it wasn't working until st★rchild came back from the minibar. The smaller bottles were easier to try to get into her, and—amazingly—she didn't gag. She spit up most of what we tried to get down her, but still she swallowed some. "Does she seem drunk to you?" "Give it twenty minutes. Don't! What are you doing? Don't feed her more!" "Why not? I want to!" "You're gonna get this baby schlitzed." "That's my intention. Why don't you get yourself shitfaced with that rum over there?" "Someone should stay sober while we have the baby." "We don't have to stay completely sober. What's gonna happen? She's just gonna lie on the bed and pass out, probably." "I hope we didn't give her too much that she gets alcohol poisoning." "With that amount? No way." "But she's so much smaller than us, remember." "She'll be fine. Get yourself drunk. I'll join you in a minute." And st★rchild was feeding a teeny tiny bottle of Absolut Citron to her baby, slowly so she wouldn't spit it up, and Olive was giving out cries of joy between sips. She didn't get drunk—I mean you couldn't tell. She stayed awake and she cried some later, but she didn't have any words to slur and she wasn't walking, so. I bet the shit she took later stank like a motherfucker. You're welcome, Corinne. But that was all the evidence there was that she had gotten drunk, and the squirty shit bath was the prize of the evening. All the shit had gone down the drain and we had fresh towels in the bathroom by 8pm, just in case Corinne came home early. We were lucky because she came come by 8:15, saying she couldn't possibly have stayed out any later, and trying to hand st★rchild a hundred dollars that she hadn't used, but st★rchild wouldn't take it. Corinne came into our room and held up the clothes she had bought, a couple of items from the same shop that st★rchild and I had bought from earlier. "Are you ready to take charge of her again?" "Oh, I missed her!" "Well, we took good care of her while you were gone, had some family time, we even took a bath! We packed up your bag again, thank you for this, it was useful." "Goodnight Corinne." "Goodnight." "We're going early to breakfast, all four of us, so get a good night's sleep." "Ok. See ya." "See ya." St★rchild closed the door. She had a devilish look on her face. "What?" "Do you think..that Corinne..would ever play along with us in our bathtime games? It would be so much more fun to have the whole family involved, don't you think?" I step close to st★rchild. "I think..she would call Child Protective Services. I don't think she'd find it funny at all." "Aww..poor girl." "I know." "It's sad..to think of someone living their life that way." "Anyway I think we should keep it to ourselves. That means no talking around Corinne, too." "Ok." "You will?" "Yeah, I'm sorry about earlier, I just wasn't thinking like an adult. That's what I have you here for." St★rchild smiles. I laugh once and fall into one of the beds. St★rchild sits on its edge drinking bottles from the minibar while we watch TV. When she's done she tosses the bottles onto the floor, while making a neat pile of their caps on the bed beside her. I'm not exactly sure what to write at this point in the story. I could tell you more about our week in St. Martin, how we sat on the beach, me with my laptop, and spent the afternoons typing and swimming and playing with little Olive. I could tell you how st★rchild and I met this couple who were into swinging and how we did a little swap-er-roo! the next to last night of our trip. But these things would be pedestrian. We didn't take anymore alone nights with Olive, so there were no more shit parties or potential cutting adventures. St★rchild came away refreshed; I did too. Corinne had a week of work, but it was a week of work on the island, with perks, so I know she enjoyed that. Olive liked playing in the sand, and she fed herself handfuls of it. Roughage. Can you hear the middle-aged voice in my text? The word choice, so very thirty-something. Out of touch, clinging to a lost past, I know. If I could write and pretend to be younger I would. Instead you're stuck with this. I would apologize more but my dick already hangs apologetically, the way the turtle neck comes down to cover the tip, even though I'm circumcised. It's embarrassing, I have to reach down my pants all the time and refresh it, pull the skin back so I'm comfortable. I don't have to follow all your advice, Google grammar checker. Some of your options are simply absurd. I could catalogue all the restaurants st★rchild and I ate at while we were in St. Martin, but I'm not going to do that. I'm going to skip ahead to parts of the story that involve shitplay and the disruption of Olive's childhood. You've already gotten used to me having sex with st★rchild. You don't care anymore that she's only nine. You've almost gotten used to the disruption of Olive's childhood. It's punch is waning, and you, hungry reader, will want more from me before this story's end. While I want to give you more, I also must remain true to this story's roots, and at its root this story is a story about shitplay. The st★rchild falls down, shits herself, and I clean her up in an alley with a hose. That is how we fell in love. That is always and will always be what this story's about. If the thought of putting shitty water into a syringe and injecting it into the bloodstream bothers you, then I suggest you turn back now. That's right. If you don't want to read about literally injecting shit into the bloodstream, this is your getting-off point. This is actually a good stopping point. You can end with the still image of my feet sticking off the end of a Grand Case hotel bed with st★rchild sitting on its edge drinking the entire minibar, tossing bottles onto the floor and setting their caps in a neat pile beside her. The end. But of course that's not the end, not for those of us who will be continuing on this shit journey, following it to its inevitable end. We will be wrapping in plastic capes and putting on rubber gloves, spraying our shoes with Scotchguard, and donning goggles so that none of the shit may get on us, because, yes, there are those among you who prefer not to have shit on your penises, shit on your cunts. I have encountered your kind before. I won't say I liked it, but I have done it. What use would I have for a person who isn't shit-friendly? Would I have coffee with you? (Not more than once.) Would I fuck you? (Definitely not.) No, I only travel with the shit-friendly, the degraded, fucking whores. For I am one, certainly, a whore beyond belief. If I told you how I had been degraded, the many ways and methods, it would take another book. Truly, I don't want to drag you through all of that. But if injecting shit into your eyeball is something you'd rather not be a part of, stop now. If shit-swapping enemas are something you're not too keen on, stop now. If snorting lines of dried and powdered shit doesn't sound like your cup of tea, then don't travel with me. There is too much fun to be had, and I'd rather only have along the people who really want to be here, so you don't ruin the experience for your fellow readers. If you don't think sipping shit water through a straw sounds like fun, then what are you? Reaching your hands into the toilet after your friend has done their duty, and grabbing, and squishing, getting between your fingers, rubbing it around, even drawing with it on walls (preferably in a public bathroom or hotel room), using shit as deodorant, smearing it underneath your arms. Taking turns shitting in each other's mouths, perhaps the ultimate form of shitplay. Shitting in boxes and mailing it to strangers out of the phone book. Shitting to mark the territory around your house or apartment. Shitting in the pool when unsuspecting guests are around. Mixing shit in the cookies and feeding them to visitors, watching them tell you how good the cookies are. Shitting on your laptop and closing the lid, smashing it down between the keys, then opening it like a waffle iron and licking fingerfuls off the screen. Using human shit as fertilizer. Making shit ice cubes. Getting ten people together and all shitting in the same unflushed toilet in a restaurant, then leaving it there for the next customer. Shitting in public places, holding it in and letting it out real quick inside a funhouse or a roller coaster car. I mean, there are more things we did with shit but I'm not going to list them. Some of this book is left as an exercise to the reader, to discover and invent the shitplay that works for you. I'm merely giving suggestions to get you started. Does it make you have to shit just listening to this catalogue? It makes me want to shit, writing it. See you have to ask yourself, why did you never think of sending shit boxes at Christmas instead of cards, to your old high school friends you keep up with on facebook. Why didn't you think of that? Think outside the box, man. Put on your thinking cap. There are a lot of possibilities out there. And not just with shit. Did you ever decide to give away your belongings to strangers? Consider it. It's possible. The question is how far outside of "normal" are you willing to go? A lot of you will not be able to do these things (or you won't do them). That's ok. Just considering such ideas is an exercise in growth. It took me some growth to get into the idea of fucking a nine-year-old. If she hadn't been so forceful it probably wouldn't have happened. If she hadn't literally taken my dick with her hand and put it on/around her vagina, I wouldn't have stuck it in. Once you're feeling those soft parts, though, it's difficult to stop. You had me at: soft and wet outer pussy feeling. You had me at: rubbing my dick down there. You had me at: st★rchild. I covet the st★rchild. I take delight in owning the st★rchild. I take delight in giving the st★rchild away (as with those swingers). St★rchild. You are the brightest star among them, the only one that matters. St★rchild. I make love to you as I would make love to a god, consider you a god, consider you divine. Consider your fame as something not-real, something I used to care about before I met you. Now I don't even believe you're famous..except you are. Like that I'm the one, out of all the people clamoring to be next to you for a minute, that I'm the one who gets to sleep beside you, to be inside you. To play with you. You make me more of myself, that you're with me, that we can commune, speak, touch. Sit beside each other at dinner. Feel your hand go down my pants and adjust the turtle neck for me (thank you). Brush your teeth at the same time as me, sharing toothbrushes in mid-brush (of course). Our mouth bacteria is the same. Our asses use the same toilet paper. I can wake you up to fuck. Your smile makes me hard. One finger and I'll slide my ass down on it, ass-fucking your hand. Finger-fuck my ass, st★rchild. Stimulate my prostate and make my dick über-hard, then we fuck. Let me eat you for hours, until you've already cum and you need to get dick-fucked to get that one last orgasm. Let me drop below the surface and understand you in sign-language, by the shape of your actions, no words, like we're underwater. At the beach, on the last day, st★rchild and I were treading water on Baie Rouge and I told her, "Look, I hope this doesn't mess things up between us, and I'm having fun in LA and all, but I think I need to go back to New York and do a few things." "Like what?" "I need to see my psychiatrist, my therapist, and I want to check on my apartment. That's not true. I don't need to check on it. But I want to be there. I miss my apartment!" "And you want to go by yourself?" "I hadn't even thought of that, that you might come with me. I figured you needed to be in LA." "Not right now I don't. I don't have anything going on there." "Would you like to come with me to New York?" A big smile from st★rchild. "Yes." "You can stay with me, I've got plenty of space." "I have an apartment in New York," she says. "But I'll stay with you. Corinne and Olive can stay at my place." "There's enough room at my place for Corinne and Olive if you want them close by." "I'll think about it. So am I invited?" "To New York? Yes!" "I accept," she says, and puts out her hand for a shake. I shake it, then go back to treading. "How long can you stay?" "As long as you want. Or, until something comes up, really, I might get a job and I'd have to go back, but, for now, nothing on the schedule." "You'd really come to New York with me?" "Why not?" "Wanna go straight from here?" "Sure." "I like this about you, you can do things like this. I've been looking for someone so long, even just a friend, that can do the same things I can do, like go on vacation at a moment's notice and end up in a different city on the way back. You're fulfilling a need I've had for a long time. Thank you. For being you." "Thank you too. I've needed a friend too." "We are friends, aren't we?" "We're super friends." "When we get back to the hotel I'll work on our flights. Oh! Corinne! Do you need to talk to her?" "I'll talk to her." "Can she come with us?" "I don't know. I'll ask. I hope so." "I hope so too. I like our little family. You and me are the grown-ups, and Corinne and Olive are the babies." "I'm one of the grown-ups?" "You are." "How did I get to be that way?" "By the way you act." "You're more like a child than me." "Why?" "The way you sit. And the silly way you talk." "I talk silly?" She nods. On our drive from Baie Rouge back to the hotel, st★rchild popped the question to Corinne. Corinne said she loved New York but had only been there once, and she would love to go except she didn't pack enough clothes. "We'll buy more," st★rchild states. "Anything you need. Did you bring your phone?" "Yes." "Good. So you can do it?" "How long are we going for?" "We don't know. Just come along and if you get homesick I'll send you back, ok?" "Well..ok. Where will we stay?" "One of our apartments. Or a hotel. We'll work it out when we get there, let's not get bogged down in the details." That shut Corinne down. She didn't say another word until we got back to the hotel. Then it was all squeezing the last bit of St. Martin out of St. Martin. St★rchild and I went out to dinner, reprising our favorite restaurant for the week and getting drunk while Corinne stayed home with Olive and st★rchild drove us home drunk. She could barely see over the dashboard, but I was used to that from her driving in LA. She'd been stopped, too, many times. But she used her star power and hotness to get out of the normal driving rules, like you have to be sixteen. They just let her go. Even judges gave her special treatment, because they wanted to know her, to be close to her in some way. I was st★rchild's lawyer. I was st★rchild's judge. But she got us home ok—or back to the hotel. The parking wasn't too suave, but. We made it there alive. Skipped Corinne's room altogether and went to the bed. If there's one thing st★rchild loves it's drunk fucking. She likes it when I'm rough with her, when I hold her down. I like it too. It's a license to be wilder, more animal, it just comes naturally when you're drunk. Our drunk fucking was the best. So we drunk-fucked and passed out, and the next morning it was packing and getting everyone in the car and heading back to the car return place. It was in a different spot than where you rent them, and once you returned the car, you had to take a shuttle with all your people and all your luggage to the airport. It was sad getting on that shuttle, being without our St. Martin car, and the shuttle driver recognized st★rchild, so that was like a little taste of what we were going back to. Don't handhold your readers. Cut off parts of sentences that aren't necessary. Let them connect the dots. In the line at the airport, waiting outside, it was hot and we all started to sweat. It was horrible knowing we were leaving, going back to the usual. At least we weren't going to LA. We flew from SXM to Atlanta to JFK. On the plane from SXM to Atlanta we talked about our trip, remembering the good parts, keeping of course the shit bath from Corinne, but I saw the look in st★rchild's eye, she was remembering it and I was too. We both reached for Olivia and touched her at the same time. I wondered if Olive would remember that, somewhere in her brain, even when she was older. Probably not. But in her deep memory, she would, that would shape who she became in some unknown way. My TMJ is acting up. Sitting here writing. I'm holding my jaw in all sorts of weird ways. Someday my jaw will lock shut and I won't be able to open it. I'll stop talking and starve. Hopefully st★rchild will be there with me. She can put pizza in a blender and feed me through a straw. It was 10pm by the time we got to JFK, and as soon as we were on the ground st★rchild was on the phone to Lancôme having her make reservations for her and Tony and Brad to come stay in a hotel near my apartment in SoHo. It would take them a day to get to us. Lancôme was packing some things that st★rchild and I had left in her bedroom, just some sex toys. We took a cab from JFK to my place, and it was such a different scene than I had known for months that my own apartment looked strange to me. I turned on the lights and everything was still there, my lounge-like living room and I took st★rchild to my bedroom. She squeezed my ass when she saw it. Low bed, everything in black, old-fashioned bookshelf covering one wall. We showed Corinne the extra bedroom, where she would stay with Olive. It was pretty much across the hall from mine. Smaller bed, but large enough that Corinne would have no excuse if she smothered Olive. Corinne put Olive down and st★rchild and I hung out in the living room and kitchen, making drinks and her checking out all of my things. I had a white dildo I like to use on my ass sitting in the dishwasher that she discovered. "What's this for?" "Oh, you know." She raises her eyebrows. "I like to have my prostate stimulated. That's actually an attachment to my vibrator." "You vibrate this in your ass?" "Yes I do." "Hot man. What else do you have hidden around here?" "Oh, I don't know. I forgot that was in my dishwasher. You'll just have to look around." "Oh don't worry, I am." She goes back to exploring and I finish our drinks, very strong martinis, what my friend James would call an anemic martini. You'd like James, you'll meet him in a future book, I think. So Corinne comes out after she gets the baby to sleep. "Do you want a drink?" "Oh, no." "Hungry? Menus are over there. We've got..24 hour sushi, any kind of sandwich, Indian, Pakistani, just look through them. I'll get you whatever you want. St★rchild? You hungry?" "Yes, what are you having?" "I'm thinking about a cheesesteak." "You're always thinking about a cheesesteak." "Do you see anything, Corinne?" "Not yet." "Corinne," st★rchild says. "Would you ever consider having a threesome with me and my boy here?" Corinne blushes. She has the Pakistani menu out and is surveying it. "Did she hear me?" "She's blushing." "I made you blush?" St★rchild comes over. She puts an arm around Corinne's waist. "You are blushing hard!" Corinne looks up at me and smiles, she shakes her head about st★rchild. "So, would you?" "I'm from Iowa," she says. "We don't do—" "Don't tell me people in Iowa don't have threesomes. Of course they do. Of course they do! Anyway we're not in Iowa, we're in New York, and people in New York definitely have threesomes. So. I'm asking you. Would you. Have a threesome. With me. And my boy here." Corinne blushes further, if you can believe it. Then she says: "Let me think about it." "Fair enough, fair enough." St★rchild takes her hands of Corinne. I say, "Did you pick out something to eat yet?" "Yeah, this." She points. "Ok. St★rchild, pick out your dinner." "Are you getting a cheesesteak?" "No, I'm getting sushi." "I'll get sushi too. Just pick it out for me, I like everything." "Ok." So I pick it out while the girls go into the living room and are sitting and turning on the TV and I make the calls to our two separate restaurants for dinner then I take st★rchild her drink and it's me in a chair with the two of them on the couch. "I have a small dick," I say, to Corinne, after the first sip of my drink. "So you'd hardly even feel it. I mean if you decided to.." "His dick is very small," st★rchild pops in, drinking her martini. You'd hardly feel it. So if you're worried about tearing..I wouldn't be." "It's a virgin-killer penis," I say, and st★rchild asks, "Wait, are you a virgin?" Corinne gets bright red. "This could be great. He's got a virgin-killer penis and if you're a virgin..this could be perfect. Just think about it, C. No one's trying to force you into a position right now. But if you were a virgin that could be great. I'm not asking, I'm not asking! I mean if you feel like sharing, that's ok. But no pressure, alright. Everything with me and him is a no-pressure type situation. I could oversee him and make sure he didn't hurt you, you know, like a supervisor, hypervisor type of thing. Do you remember those announcement cameras they have in the streets here? I remember that from the alley when we first met. Are they everywhere?" "Just some places. The more dangerous places. Or the high-rent areas where they want to make sure nothing goes wrong." "Like this area that we're in right now?" "My street has them, yes." "What are you guys talking about?" "Didn't you say you'd been to New York before? These probably came after you were here. They're these announcer-camera things that keep an eye on the street. They tell you things when you're doing something wrong, like raping someone." "They also tell you things when you're doing something right." "Like love-fucking someone in an alley while you're washing the shit off them." Corinne blushes each time we say "shit." St★rchild takes my hand, remembering the day we met. Is that part of the music or is that something happening in real life. I don't know. Take out your earphones. "St★rchild, leave her alone. I don't think she likes to talk about shit-fucking. And you don't have to tell us whether or not you're a virgin. It's none of our business." I said that just to lull her into a false sense of security, to make it seem like I was a nice guy. Of course I wanted to know, and of course I wanted her to be one, because we could slice and dice her pussy like we had done with Olive, except using bigger instruments. But I played nice guy to get it. You always want to come off casual, like, no I don't give a shit whether you're a virgin or not, Corinne, nor do I care whether you have a threesome with me and st★rchild, when in fact you really do. "Corinne, are you comfortable staying here? Because I can put you up in a hotel but I thought it would be nice to have Olive around." "No, I'm used to you two, I'd rather stay with you." "Are you sure you don't want a drink. Olive's down. Live your lief." I had succumbed to the inimitable spelling of Steve Roggenbuck. It had drawn me with its power, its individuality, it's magnetism of invention. "Life your life, I meant," clearing my throat. I had to at least maintain an illusion for myself that I wasn't alt lit. "Ok," she says. "You will?" "But don't make it too strong." "Sip this," st★rchild says. "Tell me if this is too strong." Corinne makes a yucky face. "Yes." She coughs. "It's ok, I don't need a drink." "I'll make you a weak drink," I say. "Rum and Coke. Ok?" "Fine. Mostly Coke." "Mostly Coke. Look. You can watch while I make it." "I trust you." "But do you trust me enough to have a threesome with me? That's the question." "Don't bother her." "I'm not bothering her. Corinne, am I bothering you?" "No." "Ok, good. Now here's the Coke..and..here's the rum. Just a little bit. Taste that and see if it works for you. That ok?" Corinne nods. We both go back to our seats. St★rchild says, "Are you sure we can't..tell her about that one thing?" "What one thing?" "The thing with..you know." "I know what you mean. I don't think we should talk about that." "Talk about what?" Corinne says. "Nothing, I shouldn't have brought it up. It's a surprise we're planning." "For who?" "I don't know," st★rchild says. "I forgot." Corinne rolls her eyes. She sips her drink. The TV is on, playing shots of snowboarders doing tricks. They're on an artificial hill, somewhere in Aspen. "You trust me with your baby, but you won't tell me about a surprise you're planning." "Are you snapping at me? I don't pay you to snap at me, as far as I remember. I don't need your lip, Corinne, let's be very clear about that. Now sip your drink and go to bed, if you're not going to have a threesome with us." "Is having a threesome with you part of the job?" "No it isn't. That's optional. For cool people." "So I'm not cool now." "Corinne," st★rchild warns. Corinne is quiet. She looks at the floor and sips her drink. "I think I'm done with this." "Just put it on the counter." She does, and walks out of the room. We hear the guest room door snap shut. St★rchild looks at me. "Do you believe that?" "She's just tired." "I don't pay her..to give me..her motherfuckin' lip." "Give her a break, please, she's in a strange place—" "I'm in a strange place. Do you see me acting up? She needs to learn how to go with the flow." "With your flow." "Yeah. Exactly! You made her a drink and she didn't even drink it?? You bought her dinner, what, does she expect to eat in her room?" "Don't get mad at her." "You better withhold her dinner—" "I'm not gonna withhold her dinner. What good's that gonna do. The food'll just go bad. I'm gonna take her her dinner." "To soften her up so she'll do the threesome?" "I think softening her up is the way to go, when it comes to the threesome, yes." "Oh I'm sorry. You're right. Do you want me to go talk to her?" "Just take her her food when it comes. You can make up softly." "Do you think I should say anything to her?" "No, just bring her her food. That'll be enough." "You're so good at dealing with people." "If had longer to work at it." "If it was me, I'd just..chop everybody's heads off." I laugh. "That works with some people." "I think I'm tired too, baby. Will you take Corinne's food to her and bring me sushi in bed?" I nod. St★rchild takes her martini and goes to the bedroom. She closes the door. I sit and watch X-Gamers and bottom out my martini. I think about what kind of tools we would need to dissect Corinne's hymen, if we were going the tools route. Hymen destruction is one of my specializations (virgin-killer). That st★rchild did it to Olive just tickled my own need for such exploration. All the different shapes, all the different positionings and consistencies. It would be like unwrapping a present, to get to see Corinne's hymen. We could operate on it while she was unconscious, remove it delicately, prep her for fucking. I imagined st★rchild and I wearing face masks, peering between Corinne's legs with bright lights. Or maybe she would just let us fuck her. Break through the classic way. The food arrived, Corinne's food. I went and paid the guy, traded him for a bag, took it to Corinne's room. Knocked. "Corinne?" She answered the door in pajamas. "Your food." "Thank you!" She gave me a little kiss on the cheek, very old fashioned, and a bit encouraging. "How's Olive?" "Sleeping." "Well..good night." "Night." "You want a glass of water?" "Yeah." "I'll bring you one." On the way I imagined her hymen, tried to figure it out from her face, but couldn't decide if it was one of the translucent ones, or the stopper kind. We would like to peer at it, investigate it, sniff it. I'm devoted to hymen worship. Knock knock. "Your water." "Thank you." No kiss this time. "Goodnight Corinne." "Goodnight." Back to thinking about her hymen. It might be one of those spotty pegboard-looking ones. Or it might have already been pierced or removed. Was Corinne a masturbator? I pegged her as a yes. Could be there was nothing left for me and st★rchild to play with. Would we reach between her legs and find blood? Or would she be ready to fuck? I waited for the rest of the food. Poor Corinne. Here she was just growing up naturally, masturbating or not masturbating, this hymen or that hymen, and she happened upon two vultures like us. People who would want to operate on her, drug her, put her out so we could play with her without her interruption. When the sushi came I was deep into it, deep into what we could do to Corinne in these imagined scenarios. I hardly heard the doorbell. When I took the sushi to my bedroom I didn't even have the bag on the bed before I started in on st★rchild. "We could drug her, and get a pair of pliers, and pierce her. Pierce her. Do you see what I'm saying?" "Are you sure you want to drug her?" "No. Not sure. Not sure at all. That just came to mind. Maybe she would be willing, a willing participant in our experiments. Do you want to operate on her, too?" "Yes, with a pencil." "It depends on what type of hymen she has." "What type do you think she has?" "I narrowed it down. Maybe we shouldn't drug her. Can you convince her?" "To what? Have a threesome with us?" "Let us operate on her." "Sure! All I have to do is buy her enough stuff, she'll go through with it." "You wanna eat your sushi?" "Aren't you having some?" "I will in a minute. I can't eat right now." "'Cause you're too excited." "I am excited. I've never done this with anyone else before. You're my partner. You're truly my partner. Do you feel that?" "Yes, baby." She was chewing on a piece of Fire Dragon roll. I sat on the bed. "I want to eat it." "Mmm." "I want to eat it. I want to get Corinne drunk, have her let us cut out her hymen with scissors, and I want to eat it." St★rchild was smiling, with her mouth full. She swallows. "I love it. I'll help you. I'll work on the Corinne angle. Do you want to eat Olive's, too?" "Olive's is I think going to be too hard to get out without hurting her. You know? She's so small." "I still want to break it more." "And I'll help you with that. I will. I know I was squeamish before but I've come around. You're her mother. You can do whatever you want to her. I'll help you if you'll help me with Corinne." "I want a piece of it too! Here, eat." I grab a piece of sushi, skip the wasabi and soy sauce and just much it. It's a salmon roll. "I bet Corinne's pussy tastes like this!" "I'm betting she's more of a tuna girl." "I got us tuna." "I see. Try that next and see if you think it might fit her." I munch it. "No, I'm thinking more salmon." "I'm thinking more tuna." "Maybe we should leave her alone." "You can't stop now! You've got me into this!" I thought of the Amanda Knox crime, and I was glad they let her go, even if she did it. Murderers deserve their life, too. I could see how what we were planning with Corinne could easily escalate into an Amanda Knox-type situation. If we had an X-Acto knife to cut out her hymen and she started struggling, we might have to swipe her with the knife, and that might result in her killing (the killing of Corinne). That wasn't the intended result. Maybe it was better if we cut it out and fed it to her. But I really wanted to eat that girl's hymen. Maybe she would even shitplay with us, but I doubted it. How close could we get this family to be? "St★rchild." "Yes?" "Are we pie-in-the-sky-ing it? She's not really gonna do this, is she?" "She'll do what I tell her," st★rchild says. "Or she won't have a job." "Damn. Ok. You're a tough motherfucker. I get off on willingness, though, I want her to really want to do whatever it is." "I think you have to convince her by degrees," st★rchild says. "Convince her of the threesome. Even have the threesome to discover whether she has a hymen, just don't fuck her in case she does. Then you convince her to have another one, and during that one you bring out the knife and say, 'Corinne, we're going to cut you now. Lie back and take it.' Like that." "Ok. I get what you're saying. Do you think I should flirt with her?" "No, let me work on her on the threesome. I'll take her shopping tomorrow." "That's good I have a therapy appointment tomorrow." "You're going to see your therapist?" "Yeah. It's been a while, I'm sure she'll find that I'm all fucked up." "Do you get a lot out of therapy?" "I find it helpful." "Are you gonna talk about me with your therapist?" "I might." "Well, don't tell her too much, you'll get yourself arrested." "Yeah, I thought about that. I'll be careful. Isn't that funny?" "What?" "Everyone knows about us but they don't actually know, so everyone knows, but no one can actually do anything because you haven't told on me." "On us." "On me. It's me who would get in trouble." "But it's us that are having sex. It's unfair that only you would get in trouble." "But you're a minor." "But I'm willing. You're not raping me. If you were this would be a different story." "But the laws." "Yeah, I know, they're bullshit, you know that. Come up by people with no imagination." "Come up with by people who haven't thought things through." "Whatever." "Where are you taking her shopping?" "Close around here. We'll probably walk." "Are Bruno and Kevin coming in tomorrow?" "That's Tony and Brad, and yes, they're coming in tomorrow." "Wait for them to get here before you go out? I want you safe." "I will. Don't worry." "Do you think Tony and Brad are enough?" "For this neighborhood..yes. I'll keep a car close by if it'll make you feel better." "Why don't you." "Ok, I will. You better eat some more of this sushi before it's all gone." "I'm eating. I'm just thinking." "About what? Corinne's hymen?" "We're probably getting too excited. She may have already ruined hers." "Do you think women will like this book you're writing?" "Some of them will, a lot of them won't. It'll take time. People are too sensitive about things right after they happen. My live readers like it; some of them are women." "Yeah, but your live readers are freaks." "That's my audience, you're saying? Freaks?" "I think the only music you listen to is of people screaming like they're being tortured." "You mean Nine Inch Nails?" "Whatever. Listen to some happy music some of the time." "I listen to happy music." "Talk to your therapist about it." "Do you want the last piece of this?" "No." I take it, the last piece of the Futomaki roll, try to fit it in my mouth all at once. St★rchild whispers in my ear, throatily, "Just imagine that's Corinne's vagina and you're eating her hymen right out of her. Scraping it with your teeth." Just then I was thinking of a friend of mine who had died when she was young, who still had her hymen, though I never checked, it was checked by the doctors at the emergency room where she died, to make sure I hadn't raped her. But I hadn't, I was a good boy, and her parents talked to me about the fact that she was still a virgin and I said we were waiting until we were both ready and they were happy with that response. Then I was just sitting on a bed with st★rchild, eating my Futomaki roll, and thinking of st★rchild's hymen, when it had been broken, long before she met me. I wished I had been there for it, wished I could have watched and participated. You can say this book gives my therapist a lot to work with, but the fact is I'm psychoanalyzing myself, motherfuckers. I do most of that work just me. Sure, I'm obsessed with virginity and hymen (we'll say that hymen is its own plural) but there are good reasons for that. My girlfriend died before we ever got to have sex. She was a virgin. That was my chance to be with a virgin. Now I'm too old to be hanging around with young women so the chances of me fucking a virgin are small. I think that's something every young person deserves, is to be with someone when it's (both of your) first time. It's just not an experience I ever got to have, and I'm sad about it. But I can get over it, it's not the most important thing in the world to be with a virgin when you lose your virginity, it's just so symmetrical and seeming wonderful. But it doesn't consume every thought of every hour of every day or anything. It's just one of the many things floating around in the universe that is my thoughts about sex. Which, until st★rchild, I didn't really have anymore. I had stopped even masturbating. Don't I deserve to be with her, even though she's nine years old? If two people connect (and connection is rare), shouldn't that be enough to make it ok? I was going to talk about it with my therapist tomorrow. Tonight I was going to try to forget all about Corinne and hymens and virginity and just finish the rest of this sushi with my girlfriend, who might be illegal but was the best thing I had going for me, even though you think our play was weird, it was ours, ok, and we liked to do it. We always scrubbed down after the shitplay, so what is it to you? Does it affect your liberty? Does it need to concern you? No? Well take a break from reading for a minute, will you, give me some privacy? I have a reticulated penis, is what it is. It's reticulated. It is necessary for you to understand that the part of the story I'm about to tell you is absolutely true, not exaggerated in any way, but the exact truth which happened. I woke up with my reticulated dick, my reticulated penis, and it was reticulated. So I pulled it back from the base and I was naked again, my tip uncovered. It looks like a little turtleneck. Like a reticulated turtle. When I woke up there were sushi cartons still in the bed and st★rchild was gone. I thought about jerking off but didn't because of the medicine. I got up and put on real clothes, very real clothes, and I took a very real trip to the bathroom in my room. I saw a very real me facing back in the mirror. I became determined to find st★rchild. I lept out of the bathroom like a ballet dancer, leaping down the hall to the main room. No st★rchild. I lovingly looked under the couch to see if she was there. Very lovingly. Then I determined they must be in Corinne's room so I leapt like a gazelle in the direction of the supposed st★rchild. When I arrived at the door my smart-ass writing style disappeared and I became normal me. I knocked. St★rchild answered. "Come in! Come in we're waiting for you." She opens the door further. Corinne is standing on the far side of the room. My shower curtain has been taken off its rod and is lying across the bed. Olive is in the middle of the shower curtain, on her back. "What," I say. St★rchild says, "Come in, don't stand in the hallway. Have you taken your morning shit?" I look at Corinne. "No." "Well," st★rchild says. "We're going to do an excursion." I step into the room. "What's the excursion?" "Can you guess?" "I don't want to." "Then I'll tell you. You're going to shit in Olive's mouth and Corinne is going to clean it up." I look at st★rchild. She says, "Yes. Really. Corinne is on board. We just need you." "Is Olive on board?" I say. "Don't be a smartass." "Why?" "Because it's rude." "No I mean why are we doing this?" St★rchild says simply, "Because it turns me on. To think about. I've been thinking about it a while and thinking about it turns me on. I want to do it to see what it does to me." "You mean like spontaneous orgasm or something?" "Who knows." St★rchild reaches down her pants, wiggling her finger around the vagina area. She pulls it out and shoves it in my face. "Lick." I do. "See how wet I am?" "That's from thinking about this..scenario?" "Mmm-hmm." "Can we have sex afterwards?" "Mmm-hmm." "With Corinne?" "Corinne is going to be cleaning up the baby, right Corinne?" I look over at Corinne again. I'm trying to read her face. "I told Corinne about our shit bath." "What did you think of that Corinne." "I mean, I'm not for it, but it doesn't matter." "Why doesn't it matter?" "Because," she says. "I work for st★rchild. If you guys wanna do that then that's your business." "But it's your business too if you're cleaning up after it." "That's my job. To take care of st★rchild's baby. I'm doing my job." "Well do you at least want some rubber gloves?" "Two steps ahead of you, big guy." That was st★rchild. She comes around with an unopened pair she must have gotten from under my sink. Tosses them to Corinne. "Did you tell her everything?" "No, I only told her about the shitplay." "Don't you want to know everything?" "Not really. I'd prefer to know as little as possible, if that's possible." "Are you ever going to have sex with us?" "I haven't decided. Maybe." "Fair enough. Ok, so—" "Take your pants off." I do. I take my pants off then my underwear. Corinne looks at my dick. I wonder if she knows what a virgin-killer dick is. "Can you shit now?" "No, I have to eat something, that will trigger it." "Go get something. We'll wait." Olive is lying there peacefully, looking up at the ceiling. She's so tiny. I go to the kitchen and get a bran muffin that was wrapped up in the refrigerator. I munch it while going back to the bedroom. "Are you ready?" "Just give me a second." "Maybe if you squat over the baby it will help." "I kind of.." "What?" "I kind of want to be completely naked when I do this." I take my shirt off, get up on the bed, being careful not to tilt it too much and knock Olive off. I get on all fours, but with my back facing the mattress and kind of spider walk over on top of Olive. "Can you do it like that?" "I don't know." "Maybe if you turn the other way, with your feet at that end." "I see what you're saying." "Yeah." "Like that," Corinne says. "What if I have bacteria in my shit that's going to get into Olive." "Yep." "Is that ok?" "She's gonna clean her up real quick, right after I take the picture." "I really don't think photographing this is a good idea." "Well. You're not in charge. It's my phone, it's my picture. Don't worry about it. Just do your part." "I feel like you're directing me, like in a movie." "I am directing you, but for a still." "Corinne, you're ok with this?" "I mean, it's whatever." "I mean are you going to go to the police?" "No, I would never." "Why, though, just 'cause you're scared of losing your job?" "I don't know why. It just doesn't seem like my business." "Ok. Do you like my virgin-killer dick?" Corinne nods. "Can you shit now?" "I feel it moving." "Corinne. Make sure Olive is set right." Corinne's arms go below me, adjusting. "Ok, I think I'm gonna go now. Don't get my face in the picture." "The picture is of Olive only." "Ok." I feel it coming to my spout. My asshole is tingling. I start to feel my dick get hard and I'm appalled that I'm turned on by st★rchild's shit-on-the-baby setup. It's partially being naked in front of Corinne. The shit wells up in my rectum and I can tell it's gonna be diarrhea. Probably from the wasabi I ate last night. I'm looking at my ceiling, and I think of Olive, and wonder if this will make her cry. I hate the sound of her crying. Let's just get that part over with, she did cry when we did this to her. So I'm tightening my asshole to try to make just a little come out but the whole thing sprays out, covering Olivia's face, coating her body, and sprinkling out beyond her on the shower curtain. A couple of chunks come out in the end, dropping right on Olive's face, and Corinne comes in with the rubber gloves and nudges a piece of shit into the baby's mouth. St★rchild comes in with her phone and I'm crab-walking off of Olive to the side of the bed, rubbing my ass on the shower curtain. St★rchild snaps a picture. Corinne has Olive in her arms and is rushing her to the shower, through the hallway, dripping shit on my hallway, and gets her into the water. St★rchild makes me feel her pussy again and it's wet like a sponge. She puts her hands around my butt and feels up in my asshole, her fingers slick with shit. Her mouth is all over my chest, licking my nipples. I'm unzipping her pants and pushing them down and I throw her nine-year-old ass down on the shower curtain and ripping her panties off and sticking myself inside her, holding her head and fucking, fucking, just fucking. After that I went to see my therapist. "How have you been?" "Good, I've been in Los Angeles. Thanks for letting me cancel on you." "I'm used to your trips." "I do take trips from time to time, don't I?" "What took you to Los Angeles?" "I'll be blunt. I met someone." "A woman?" "Kind of." "Kind of what? She's kind of a woman?" "Yeah." "Is she kind of a man, too?" "No. I'm being specifically vague because I don't want to incriminate myself, but yes, let's just say she is a woman." "We're in dangerous territory, if you're saying what I think you're saying." "No, I'm not. It's not that. She's a woman. She's famous." "Oh?" "She's a movie star. I don't want to say her name because I don't want to make it about that, about who she is. But I met her in New York and followed her to her house in LA. She had a baby. You can probably deduce who it is by my telling you that, if you follow the tabloids." "I don't." "Well, good. Anyway she's famous and admittedly that is part of the draw for me." "You like that she's famous." "Yes." "Nothing wrong with that." "So she had a baby, and..we would hang out at her house in Los Angeles and I've been writing—" "You've been writing?" "Yes. I'm writing a book about..well..I'm writing a book. Yes. Writing." "That's great." "It has been great, thank you. So I wrote in New York in this hotel we were staying at for a while, while we waited for the baby." "You stayed at a hotel with her?" "Yes." "Why didn't you stay at your apartment?" "I wasn't ready to have her over at that point in the relationship. Things have changed now. She's staying with me right now. She came back over here after her movie finished. We were just hanging out on the set of this movie, it was great." "Sounds great." "I did some cocaine." "Some?" "It wasn't a problem this time. I think being around..this person..kind of tempers me." "That's great." "She does. But she gets me into..some..activities..that I wouldn't normally do." "Sexual activities?" "Yes, and bizarre activities. She's been bizarre from the moment I met her, we met in this alley, and..it was gross." "Gross?" "It was also beautiful, though, she's very beautiful." "She must be if she's a celebrity." "She is. She's a real celebrity, like you would have heard of her." "If you were telling me her name." "I can't tell you her name." "Can't or won't?" "Both. I guess." "Are you in love?" "In a way I am. I feel at home with her, because we're both understanding some of the same types of things." "Like what?" "Like what it feels like to be accomplished in your field. And to a lesser degree what it's like to be famous." "Because you are, too." "Yes. In a writer sort of way." "You don't have to qualify it. You are. You're famous." "I guess I am." "You are. Are there any problems in this relationship?" "Well, the sex is great. We're really compatible in that way. I'd say the only real problem is sometimes we're not on the same page because there's a bit of an age gap." "Is she older or younger?" "Younger." "How much younger?" "Quite a bit." "And that's a problem?" "Sometimes it is. Usually it's good. Sometimes I just feel how old and corny I am compared to her. She's very worldly. I feel outclassed by her in terms of social-interaction-type stuff, she's way beyond me in her ability to deal with people." "What does that do to you?" "It makes me feel like I want to learn. She inspires me to be better." "I think all this sounds excellent. Sounds like you have a little bit of a problem with the age gap but you seem very happy." "I am. I feel..free." "She helps you feel that way?" I nod. "What about your lawsuit with Lindsay Lohan? How is that going?" "It's continuing. There's no court date set. My girlfriend tried calling her, because they know each other, and she tried to get her to drop it, but it didn't work. She wants to push this defamation of character angle." "But it's a work of fiction." "I know. And it's not even published yet. I wish she would just let me finish the book, I think she would like it." "Could this suit potentially be worth a lot of money?" "The more widespread the book gets, the greater the value of the suit. So." "Well I'll be thinking of you with that. Good luck." "Thanks. Do you think it's wrong to shit on a baby?" "I don't understand." "Nevermind. It's been good seeing you. I think I'd like to stop now if that's ok with you." "Fine." "See you." "Would you like to schedule now or—" "I'll call. Not sure what I'm going to be doing." "Ok, I'll look forward to your call." I wanted to get home as quickly as possible to see what st★rchild and Corinne were doing with the baby. I wanted to see if they had decided to cradle their vulvas in the tiny baby mouth and piss in her, choking her so she can't breathe. Or if st★rchild was teaching Corinne how to drink baby piss, cradling the baby's vulva in your mouth and taking the stream. Mostly I worried that st★rchild had begun to operate on Corinne's hymen without me, that she was seducing her. When I got home they were gone. I texted st★rchild. She wrote back: "shopping." So I surfed the internet and found some hard porn. My favorite is chicks masturbating. I found one with a clear dildo where you could see inside her body through the inside of the dildo, and she was making these noises that got me off right away. As soon as I came, I was done with the internet, decided to leave the porn up on my screen to delight st★rchild. Not hide what I had been doing. I had an itch on my hand and I scratched it. All these little white bumps popped up in place of the itch. I thought I was getting older, and my body couldn't handle being scratched anymore. Once I scratched the top of my one foot with the heel of the other and it scraped off the skin. Like my skin is getting thinner, something of that nature. Masturbating was dicey, too. I could hurt myself if I masturbated too long. I remember that from when I first started masturbating, I would do it so often that I would injure myself. It's like that now, because the skin's so sensitive, one time and I can hurt myself. Sometimes we tear st★rchild a little when we fuck. Then we have to stop for a few days so she can heal before fucking again. It turns me on to tear her, it's sexy to me. Is that violent? Are my impulses impure? I check the bathroom. Everything's clean, the shower curtain is back on the rod. Check Corinne's bedroom. Pristine. No sign at all that someone shat on a baby. I'm not going to go into a bunch of Crime and Punishment bullshit on how I feel about shitting on Olive. To tell you the truth I didn't really think about it that much. I just did my part: spraying stink-smelling diarrhea all over Olive's face, filling her with my feces, getting in her eyes, running down her throat, getting all over her body, running between her legs. I liked the smell of my shit when I did it. It smelled of sushi, and I was happy. I bet st★rchild didn't help a bit when Corinne was cleaning up. She waited for Corinne to clean the baby, then watched while Corinne rinsed off the shower curtain and cleaned the basin of the tub. Then took her shopping. Ha! Corinne and st★rchild hitting up some south Manhattan clothing stores, carrying the baby we just shat on. I wonder who they're shopping for, Corinne or st★rchild. I suppose I'll hear all about it when they get home. I almost decided to look up shit porn, which I had never done before, but was sure it must be out there, but I didn't want to see that. I would settle for making st★rchild's picture the background on my phone. Should I get st★rchild some dildos? No, let her buy her own, if she wants some, she'll get them. Probably take Corinne and the baby with her. I should make dinner plans. Pick a nice restaurant, the three of us can go out, or it might be the six of us by tonight, if Lancôme and the boys are coming along. I lie down with the intention of taking a short nap and wake when st★rchild is setting down bags on the bed and crawling into it, crawling on top of me. "Hi baby." "Hi." "You have to come with us next time, I spent too much money." "How much did you spend?" "About eighteen thousand." "On what?" "Dresses. Shoes. Jewelry. Not nice jewelry, but. You wanna see what we got?" "Hi Corinne." She's standing in the doorway with Olive. "Hi." "How's Olive doing? Is she ok?" "She's fine." "Was she hard to clean?" "Your shower head made it easy." "Yeah. Good. What was it like seeing shit come out of my asshole?" "Very entertaining." "Good Corinne I'm glad we're not disturbing you." "Not at all." She says it chipper. "We'll be in the living room." St★rchild stands, and she proceeds to show me every dress she bought, changing in front of me, parading across the room and up onto the bed, giving me a little show. I watch her, and it's as if the sound has been turned off, and I'm in a calm little world where all there is is shopping and spoils of shopping, experimenting with shit and sex, going out to dinner, and occasionally doing our work that keeps this all going. "Come here." "Why?" "Because I want to hug you." She climbs on top of me and lies there, smiling. I hug her, squeezing her ass, and hug her tight, and her hands are on my face and she kisses me, dipping her tongue into my mouth, a trail of spit hanging from her mouth onto mine. "Corinne didn't call CPS." "If you show her the hymen-splitting trick I bet she will." "I wouldn't count on it. Corinne's a jaded girl. She's told me some stories of her growing up. I think Lancôme picked a good nanny." "Does Lancôme know about any of this?" "Not unless you told her." "Baby, I think I love you," I say. "I love you too." "Let's be together." "We are together." "I mean, like, let's keep being together." "No promises," she says. "Alright, well I better fuck you right now in case you leave me tonight. How does going out to dinner sound?" "Sounds good." We fucked quick, just a quick orgasm for her and then one for me. We left the door open and I'm sure Corinne could hear it in the living room. Orgasms were a commodity now, I could break through the medicine just like I could break through with some hard porn, cumming all the time. I didn't mind being on medication anymore. I needed to see my psychiatrist, I was running out of refills and I wanted him to give me something for sleep. Need to make an appointment. "Where are you going to take me?" "For dinner? I was thinking this little place I know around here. It's like southern food, Louisiana. Is that ok?" "Anything's ok, I was just curious." "Yeah, let's go there. Can you get us some coke?" "Yeah, baby, I'm sorry, I should have thought of that." "I haven't done any since LA." "I know, that's been a long time! I'll get us some." "Thanks." "Lancôme is here. And Brad and Tony." "Where are they?" "I sent them back to their hotel. They met us shopping." "Did you have any trouble while you were out?" "No, I signed some autographs." "That was nice of you." "I like doing it, if there's like five people." "How many did you sign?" "About that many, then we cut them off. Do you have a gym here?" "Yeah." "Do me a favor and give Lancôme the name of it so she can get me a membership. Do you wanna do butt stuff again before dinner? I have Corinne saving diapers from Olive." "Yeah," from the other room, "I have two good ones." "What's she doing?" "Saving Olive's dumps." "Why?" "So we can play with them." Corinne says, "Some of them are pretty gross." "How are we going to play with them?" "I don't know. Eat them? Rub them all over our bodies? We're just saving them for whatever." "How about we duct tape them inside our mouths so when we throw up it goes nowhere and we keep throwing up our own throw up and shit?" "Exactly." "How about we mail them to art dealers instead of slides as an art project." "Exactly." "How about we leave them on the subway in empty seats?" "No, people do that all the time. Think bigger." "How about we make a movie about them?" "Yes!" "Or send them to our moms." "Yes!" "I could use one as massage oil and give you a massage in it." "You want to do that one? Right now?" "What if we put them in the blender with grapefruit juice and see if we can make them drinkable? Or you rub it all over my dick and we have Olive give the tip of my dick head." "Yes! Let's do it!" "What if we get a funnel or some kind of pump and give each other shit enemas with Olive's shit and then shit out her shit." "That sounds good. Corinne, can we give you a shit enema?" "No thank you!" "I wanna do the shit enema one." "Does this make you have to shit just talking about it?" "Yes." "Cause it's making my readers have to shit just by reading it. They can feel movement in the bowels. By the way, can you call Lindsay Lohan again and ask her to drop this suit? I'm scared I'm going to lose everything." "I'll call her right now. Corinne! Where's my phone?" Corinne comes in, rocking the baby, and hands st★rchild her phone. "Lindsay? It's about this suit you're bringing against my boyfriend. I want you to drop it. Or at least come by and talk to us about it. Yeah? Well that's no good. No. Because it's ridiculous. You can't sue a writer for saying what they want to say in a novel, otherwise you couldn't have novels, an entire art form would be decimated." St★rchild turns to me. "Did I use that word right?" I nod and make the "perfect" sign with my hand. "Well what do you say to my invitation to come talk it out in person? Without your lawyer. We won't bring a lawyer either. Just hash out the ins and the outs, you know, the what-have-yous. That's no good, I'm in New York. Not planning on leaving. Fly to us! I'll go out clubbing with you, c'mon, it'll be fun. Plus, have you ever eaten the shit of a infant baby girl?" I shake my head at st★rchild. "Nothing. I'm just saying. Come to New York. Meet with us. We'll feed you excrement in a smoothie. Excrement in a smoothie. Yeah, like Jamba Juice. But with crap floating around in it. No, I'm not kidding. It's the latest thing. Perfectly healthy. Nothing to worry about. People in LA will start doing it soon. It already hit in Tokyo, New York has it now, and LA will follow, then the rest of the country! Yes! Don't be scared, it's fine, I'll do one with you. Come to New York. You will? Good. Thank you Lindsay. Ok, I'll see you." St★rchild tosses the phone. "She's coming." "Without her lawyer?" "Without her lawyer. I'll take her out, show her a good time, then you two can talk about business. She's a reasonable person, you can work this out with her." "When's she coming?" "I don't know. Soon. I'll tell you more when I know more. Do you have the equipment for a shit enema?" "No." "Where can we get it?" "Home Depot." "Then let's go to Home Depot. Do you know what we need? I'll send Lancôme." "I'll look it up online and give her a list." "Good. Get going. I really want to do this before dinner. I think we should heat the shit before we put it inside ourselves. Not hot, but, like, warm." "We'll microwave it. Is Lancôme going to be present for this?" "Do you want her to be?" "Well, I think we could use an extra set of hands." "I'll talk to her. I'll break her in gently, don't worry, and I won't tell her anything she doesn't need to know. You can trust them. I have confidentiality agreements with everyone." "Ok, I'm gonna go look that shit up." "I'll be here masturbating." "Oh, no, I don't want to miss that." "Bring your laptop." "Yes, ma'am." But Corinne already had it in hand and she came into the bedroom and handed it to me, Olive in her other arm. "Thank you." Corinne nods. She leaves, and st★rchild is fingering herself, smacking her hand up against her pussy. Then she stops and pinches her nipples, then goes back downstairs. I saw a glacier cover her, or she was moving like a glacier or something, everything was in slow motion, and I saw her growing up, becoming a teenager, becoming a woman. I saw the shape of her body change, and how her face would look in twenty years. I wasn't turned off by it, I wanted to be around for it, to see her change through all those stages. A female common earwig crawled inside her ear and nested there for the next five minutes. I saw earwigs crawling out of her pussy and up her stomach and into her mouth. It made me want to cut her abdomen, to give the earwigs a nicer place to nest, and I asked Corinne for a knife and she brought me one, and I placed it on st★rchild's chest, between her tits. I thought about cutting st★rchild, like we had done in LA, but her arm was almost healing. I couldn't help but think of anal bleaching, and how we both needed to get it done. I texted Lancôme and told her to find us a clinic. She texted right back with one in my neighborhood. Then a second text: "4-8 sessions." I texted Lancôme about getting st★rchild a gym membership. The earwigs all crawled inside st★rchild's mouth and she closed it. Even the one from her ear crawled in. She was fingerbanging hard. They called her fingerbanger and she was the ultimate in fingerbanging technology, a mad index finger was enough to do it. She would make herself cum that way in the shower, I'd come in and she'd be bent forward panting, speed-fucking herself with that index finger, holding her nipple with the other. It's work to make yourself cum, especially on medicine. You have to employ speed-fucking and other techniques. St★rchild employed a variety of techniques to make herself cum, I may have mentioned some of them? When I saw her fingerfucking herself with that one finger I remembered how small her pussy was (she was just a child) and I was gladder than ever to have a virgin-killer dick, because otherwise we might not have been able to fuck at her age. We could measure her pussy with calipers if she was split in two, then compare that measurement to the measurement of my dick, then assign nap-time partners. Is statutory rape a federal law? St★rchild is cumming. She came sideways, spewing out of her vagina a mixture of carp, rusted tin, and vitamin D milk. This is the mixture I need to consume. I sucked my mouth up to her legs where it had sprayed out and suck the mixture into my stomach. She blurts out some more cum and I catch it with my mouth suctioned up to her vulva, lips locked around the edges, gulping down what she has to offer. I looked up and she had the knife in her hands, its tip pointed at my head, gripping with both hands. I smile at her. She smiles back. We start laughing, like, were you really going to kill me? I'm wanting to take my clothes off. "Is that all arranged?" "What?" "Did you give Lancôme the ingredients for our shit enemas?" "Yeah, she's got links from Home Depot's website." "What's her ETA?" "I don't know." "Well ask her!" I text Lancôme. She says her ETA is 41 minutes. When she gets here she has funnels and rubber piping, like I asked. I'm assembling them with duct tape. "Do you have the diapers heated? Corinne! Heat the diapers!" We mix heated Olive shit with hot water and plug the rubber tubes into st★rchild's and my asses. "Can you loosen up a bit more?" Lancôme is asking me. "Here, let me try." I relax all my ass muscles, with my butt stuck in the air. We're doing this in the living room. I'm on the couch. St★rchild is in my chair, her ass up too. Lancôme gets the rubber tube securely in my ass and hands Corinne my funnel. Brad and Tony are outside. I'm hoping one of them doesn't just pop in with a question for st★rchild. Lancôme gets st★rchild's tube in. She sets the funnel down and goes and gets the shit mixtures. She hands one to Corinne, keeps one herself, and goes to st★rchild. "Ready?" St★rchild and I look at each other. She says, "Go." Corinne and Lancôme simultaneously pour their shit mixtures into st★rchild's and my funnels. I can see the shit running down her tube, getting to her anus. Mine hits, and I feel hot Olive shit running into me, filling me. I see the bulk of it go through st★rchild's tube and into her ass. We make eye contact. I feel violated, as if I've been ass-fucked by a little baby's hot shit and now I'm carrying it inside me. Lancôme removes my tube. Corinne removes st★rchild's. I make sure my butthole is clenched together and stand. St★rchild does the same. Lancôme and Corinne are walking the apparatuses to the sink, holding the tube up so nothing drips. St★rchild and I grab each other's hands and are dancing, flowing into each other and away from each other. I grab her face. We kiss. I put my hands up around her butthole and she's swapping me away. "Stop!" She's laughing. "You'll make me spew! How would you like it?" And she pokes her finger up around my buthole but I've got my cheeks clenched too tight. Corinne and Lancôme are rinsing out the funnels, placing them in my dishwasher, and talking, I can't hear about what. Probably the weather, what they're having for dinner tonight, something unimportant. "Now shit this out with me." St★rchild takes my hand and leads me to the bathroom. She pushes me into place on the toilet, then she sits in my lap. "You're gonna shit on my penis!" "Hold it up!" I spread my legs extra wide and st★rchild says, "On three. One. Two. Three." We both let loose, spraying the bowl with Olive's shit, st★rchild getting some on my legs, and it feel it splashing back up onto my backside. "I need a shower." "I do too. Don't flush yet. I want to look at it." We stand, looking over the bowl, our arms wrapped around each other. "I liked how hot it was." "I did, too. I almost want to put that up inside my pussy but I know that wouldn't be good for me." "We should do each other's shit." "Ok, when the tubes dry. Let's take that shower." We leave the door open and can hear Corinne and Lancôme talking in the living room. Of course we make love in the shower. But you're so used to that by now I don't have to tell you. I stimulated st★rchild's clit reaching around with my fingers and fucked her in the pussy from behind. I thought about murdering her with a knife but decided not to. "We should bathe in Olive's shit. Collect a whole bunch of it and use the funnels over our heads in here." "Ok. I'll do that with you." "You will?" "Yes, baby." "I love you." "I love you too." "Shit enemas were a good idea. Who came up with that?" "I don't remember." "Neither do I. We were made for each other, don't you think that?" "Is that what it is? Maybe. I think we know how to have fun together." "That's what I mean. Did you look up that coke for me?" "I'm still working on it. My guy is going to come over in a while." "Do you want me to have Lancôme and the boys go away? And Corinne?" "Yes. If Corinne could just stay in the back room that would be ok." "I'll have them leave. How soon is he coming over?" "Soon." St★rchild pulls away from me and my dick comes out. Without drying, she walks into the living room and tells Lancôme to take a walk with the boys. "And Corinne, I need you in the back room with Olive. I'll tell you when you can come out." St★rchild comes back to me. "What's it like, just telling people what to do and they do it?" "It's perfect," she says. "You should get an assistant." "What would I have them do?" "Get your food, do your shopping—" "I already have someone do my shopping." "That's smart, baby, you shouldn't be spending your time on little things. You have to look at the overall, the big picture." For a second it strikes me that it's a nine year old telling me this, and that she's right. "Source out all your chores. You need to be writing, twenty-four seven." "I can only write a couple hours a day, then I wear out." "You need to spend the rest of that time recharging then, but it's still for your writing. See?" "Yeah, I see what you're saying." "You need to make yourself into a machine." "Sometimes I think about stabbing you in the neck," I say. St★rchild says, "I imagine us getting murdered together, by the same killer. Someone breaks into the house and shoots us, and we're running around bleeding all over everything until they finally shoot us dead." "I worry about getting shot at the grocery store or in public places," I tell her. "Aww, baby, is that why you have someone buy your groceries?" I nod. St★rchild kneels down and sucks my dick. "I don't want you to worry about anything," she says, from around my cock. "I want you to feel totally peaceful." I can barely understand what she's saying. She speeds up and I cum in her mouth, her hands massaging my balls. She comes up to me and we kiss. I can still taste the cum in her mouth, and I'm glad it's in there, coating her teeth and cheeks. If I'm having trouble cumming with her I just look at her and tell myself, "She's nine years old." That does it; I cum every time. We're drying off when the doorbell rings. I run to the door in my towel. It's Lance. "Come in. How are you buddy?" "You showered for me!" "My girlfriend's here, too, ok?" "If she's your girlfriend I know I can trust her." "And her baby and the nanny are in the back but they won't come out." "Get dressed, man! I'll chill here." I go back to the bathroom: empty. St★rchild is in the bedroom dressing. She's almost done. "You want me to make him a drink?" "Yeah, if you want to. His name is Lance. I'm'onna get dressed." "Ok, baby. Take your time." St★rchild goes out and I can hear them talking. "You look like. Holy shit, this is your girlfriend!? Hi, I'm Lance." "St★rchild." "You surprise a motherfucker with that shit." "Can I make you a drink?" "Sure, sistah, what you got?" "I'm gonna make you something I call a John Doe." "Sounds great. Is this blow for you, 'cause tell you the truth, my man doesn't do a lot of blow these days." "It's for me." "How much you want, girl?" "How much you got?" "I got a lot. Bring me that drink first then we'll discuss." I'm dressed and walking up the hall. Lance is on the couch. I step over the chair and sit in it. "Your girlfriend is st★rchild??" I nod. "Will you make me one too, baby?" "I'm making three." "What's in a John Doe anyway?" "Equal parts cranberry juice and one-hundred proof cinnamon schnapps, Firewater." "Why do they call it a John Doe?" "Because it'll make you forget your name." "This is not what I expected to see when I came in here. How did you two meet?" "We met here, in New York, on the street." "I shat and he cleaned me up." "Are you into shitplay?" I drop casually. "Is that where you..play with your shit?" "Exactly." "Can't say I am. But I'm open to trying new things." "That's the spirit!" st★rchild says. "So how have you been, man?" "I've been good. I've been in LA. Well I've been in St. Martin. But before that I was in LA. I've just been following that one around." "Now I'm following him around." "We're following each other around." "Well, congratulations. What I know of you, and what I've heard about her, it makes sense, man, it makes sense." "What about you? What's been going on?" "Well, I'm working on my music. Played a couple of shows out. This band is impossible to get together, impossible. Everybody has their own idea about the direction of the band and I'm like, 'Gentlemen, let's streamline this motherfucker.' You know what I'm saying?" "Yeah, I hear you. That sounds rough." "Well it's rough and it's not rough, I mean, it's just a band. But everything else is going well..I'm just..doing what I do, you know." "Good, good." "Here's your drinks." St★rchild hands one to me and then to Lance. She sits on the arm of my chair and drinks hers. Lance sits back and sips his drink. "Thank you st★rchild. And it's nice meeting you!" "It's nice meeting you too, Lance." I sip my drink. It's excellent. I had never thought to combine those elements that way. And the name seems to fit the taste of the drink. It's a John Doe. I sip more. Lance sets his drink on the table. He pats his pockets. "You wanna do this?" "Yeah." I tell st★rchild, "Can you get the mirror that's on my dresser?" She goes and gets it, places it in the middle of my living room table. Lance pulls out a bunch of little baggies of coke, evenly distributed. St★rchild starts counting some of them off to the side. She pulls one, two, three, four baggies. "How much is this?" "For you? That's four hundred." "We better get four more, then," she says. Then she says, "Lance, we better just take all you brought with you." Lance keeps pulling out baggies, and in the end, st★rchild buys over two thousand dollars worth of coke. "Don't get caught with that." "We won't. That's staying right here in this house. We'll only take little bits to go." "Good, sister, be safe." And st★rchild is counting out bills into Lance's hand. "Do you want me to get some of that?" I ask. "No, this is my treat. Lance, you wanna do some of this with us before you leave?" "Yeah, honey, I'll give you some out of my stash, since you bought all that." So we do lines of coke with Lance, and Lance and st★rchild make smalltalk, he asks her if she has any movies coming out, and she tells him about the one she just finished filming and he say it's amazing meeting you face to face and he asks her if she likes being my girlfriend and st★rchild says yes very much and I want to be like, "Bro, I was just fucking her in the shower before you got here bro." But instead I say nothing and just let the two of them carry the conversation. St★rchild is nice, she asks hi questions back, like she really cares about my drug dealer friend Lance. He wants an autograph, but doesn't have a book, so st★rchild picks out one of my books (a copy of one I wrote) and she signs that and gives it to Lance. Then Lance is leaving and we each hug him and tell him to be well. "He was nice." "You were nice to him." "Of course I was nice to him, he's your friend." "I've known Lance for a long time." "You trust him?" "Yes." "Then I trust him too. Let's get ready for dinner." She has her phone out. "Lancôme?" She nods. "Hey, it's me. We're meeting for dinner at seven. You're gonna get a text with the address. Make sure Corinne has enough stuff for the baby. You can come back to the apartment now, we're going out for drinks before and we'll meet you at the place. Ok?" She hangs up. "Where can I keep all this coke?" I show her this jar on the bookshelf that I keep old bras in. Panties of girls who have stayed over. St★rchild raises her eyebrow. "You can keep it in here. Do you mind? Am I offending you by asking you to touch old panties of friends of mine?" "No, I like it. I was thinking, I know what to do with these when you're not looking." "Good, I'm glad you're taking it that way." I help her dump all the coke bags into my jar. It's opaque, red, and has a top you pull off or push on. Unless someone goes snooping around on my bookshelf they're not going to find it. "Can we go to drinks before dinner?" "Of course we can. As soon as you're dressed." "Get dressed, too." I was ready first and I waited patiently watching her, helped her zip up the dress she picked out and we both got our phones and cash together and I got my chapstick which I do not leave the house without, under no circumstance, ever. We had drinks at a place called SKINBAR. "You wanna stick with the same?" "I suppose so." "We'll have two John Does," st★rchild said, and in a minute they brought us our drinks. They served her without asking, and she texted Tony and Brad the location of SKINBAR. After a while they were standing outside, and they would periodically check on st★rchild by stepping into the bar and getting sight of her. We drank and talked. "I wanna do something really crazy with Olive." "What?" "I wanna cut her little hymen out with a pair of clippers." "You're going to need something really small, like an X-Acto knife or a razorblade, and a pair of tiny pliers to hold her while you cut." "I was thinking fingernail clippers?" "Maybe. The hard part I think is going to be finding a small enough pair of pliers. Duh. Use tweezers." "So tweezers and an X-Acto knife." "I think that would do it. You should check with Corinne and see if we can do the same to her." "If she has a hymen." "Well, that's what I'm saying. Someone should check with her. Then we can eat them both, I want to eat Olive's little hymen first as an appetizer then Corinne's as a main dish." "What for dessert?" "A tiny cupcake. I'm kidding." "We could make Corinne squirt and drink her cum for dessert." "Is Corinne the squirting kind?" St★rchild shrugs. "I don't know either," I say. "This is kind of a hard project." "Do you feel discouraged?" "It's a little daunting, yes. Did you bring the stool samplers with you?" "Tonight? No, baby, did you want them? I'll send Lancôme." "No, no, I just thought if any of us had to shit at dinner we could collect a little and use it as a garnishment. And baby, I don't know if the place we're going is going to have cinnamon schnapps. It's not the fullest bar." "Don't worry, I'll have Lancôme get us some." "Oh. To bring to the restaurant?" "Yeah, we'll stock them." "I never would have thought of that." "You have to think smarter, that's what I'm telling you. I bring my own seranno peppers to restaurants that I know don't have them, just leave the extra with the kitchen, they love it. Same with drinks. If they don't have it, just bring it yourself." "You're smart. I like you. Let's fuck." "You want to fuck in the bathroom, baby?" "Why? Could we?" "Yeah, just stick it in me once, to say we did it. Come on." She grabs my hand and leads me away from the bar. When we come back, we order new drinks, just in case someone poisoned the last ones. People are recognizing her in this place, but they're being cool, not saying anything, but you can see it on their face, and you can see people nodding and pointing our direction. Everything is in slow motion again, and it's just me and st★rchild, and we're protected. In this space, no one can hurt us, no one wants to, and if they do..Brad and Tony. My neighborhood is behaving for her, making her welcome, not fawning over her unnecessarily. Even walking over here, we turned some heads, but no one followed us or stopped to talk. We walk to dinner with Tony and Brad right behind us. It's only about five short blocks from SKINBAR to the place we're eating, and it's still light when we get there. Tony and Brad stay outside. Corinne and Lancôme already have our table, and when we go inside the hostess has a server lead us there. "Lancôme. Find out if they have Firewater or After Shock here. If they don't, get us a bottle? We want to make John Does." Lancôme says, "Got it," and she gets up from the table and goes to the bar. "How's Olive?" "She's sleeping." "How can she sleep with all this noise?" "I don't know, she's tired, I guess." "Has she been good for you?" "A couple of crying spells, but other than that, she's been asleep! How have you two been?" "Good, we've been hanging out with one of his friends. Just at the place." "Lancôme said you were getting drinks before this?" "We went to SKINBAR. Had John Does. It was a nice vibe, wasn't it?" "Yeah." Our server comes and welcomes st★rchild and I. She asks what we'd like to drink. "Water, and, we're going to have a special drink from the bar but our friend is checking to see if they have the ingredients." "She's checking with them now?" "Yes, she has that under control so let's just get our waters for now." "Ok, I'll be right out with those." "Corinne, is there anything special you want to do in New York?" "Just sightsee. I'm ok with whatever you're doing, I'll just tag along." "Well if you think of anything, let me know, we'll do it, ok, you don't just have to tag along." I look at st★rchild to see if she minds me telling this to her employee. She doesn't even look up from her menu. "Do you already know what you want?" she says. "Yeah." "No fair. What's good?" "The lamb is good. The crawfish etoufee. Everything's good, baby." "I might just have a burger." "Suit yourself." "At least they don't have too many things on the menu, I hate that. How did you get into southern food?" "My family's from the south." "Where did you grow up?" "New Orleans." "I bet this doesn't compare to what you'd get down there. We should go to New Orleans next." "Ok." "You will?" "Sure. Why not?" "I don't want to interfere with your writing." "You're really not. I'm writing down everything you're saying." "Right now?" I show her under the table where I'm typing. "You can type that fast, that you can type whatever I say?" I nod, tapping at the keys. "Got it. Saved. See? This book is coming along fine, st★rchild, you're not getting in the way at all. Do you mind if I name it after you?" "You're just gonna call it 'St★rchild?'" "Thinking about it." "I like it." "You're not going to sue me?" "Why would I do that?" "Some people do." "We'll get Lindsay up here to talk, I'll text her right now. Order for me, will you?" When our server comes back I order for st★rchild and I, and Corinne orders for herself. Lancôme comes back to tell us she's going out to get Firewater and tells us what she wants to eat so we can order it when she's on her way back. We sip our waters and look around. "This is a nice restaurant. Thank you for taking me here." I put my hand on st★rchild's leg. It's skinny, and is one of those periodic reminders of her age. I squeeze anyway. "I could show you around in New Orleans." "No, because now we've been to two of your places and only one of mine. If we go to New Orleans that would be three of your places to only one of mine." "New York is yours, too." "Not really. I mean I come here to play but I've never really thought of it as my home." "You have an apartment here." "So?" "Well we'll go to one of yours then, where are you thinking?" "It would have to be somewhere in Europe. Have you been?" "I've been to London." "Paris then, you've never been to Paris?" "No. Do you have an apartment there?" "I have two." I think about asking her how many apartments she has, total, but decide against it because it would make me seem like a fan. "Corinne," st★rchild says. "We're thinking of kind of a fun activity that we might all do and we're wondering about your willingness to participate." Corinne takes her mouth from around the straw. "What is it?" "It's a game, a sex game—" "You wanna have a threesome with me." "Not exactly. I mean we do, but that's not the whole game." "What is the whole game?" "Well, first it involves asking you a question, which is basically, are you a virgin? And secondarily.." "Just say it." "..if your hymen is intact." "You wanna know if my hymen is intact?" St★rchild doesn't say anything so I answer, "Yes." "Why do you want to know that." "It's nothing sinister," I say. "Have you ever heard of the two German gentlemen, one cuts off the other's dick and they both eat it?" "No, is that real?" "Yes, it's real." "And you wanna do that to me?" "I know it sounds weird and you probably weren't expecting us to ask you anything like this, but it's a real offer and if you decline, I promise you, nothing will be weird among the three of us. This is a no pressure type situation. It's just. Sometimes you get bored of the usual things and you want to mix things up, you know, throw in a little extra of this and that, and I hope you're not offended by this—" "Yes," she says. I'm thinking we have her locked in for our game but decided to clarify. "Yes what?" "Yes my hymen is intact." Corinne sips her water, making only the briefest eye contact with me, then looking away. "Well that's great! Maybe you'll be willing, then, to play a little game with me and st★rchild." "Whatever it is," she says, "just don't tell Lancôme." St★rchild pipes in: "We might need Lancôme's help for it so we might have to tell her, but if I can possibly get away with not telling her, I won't tell her." "I'm scared, you guys, what is it?" "We want to cut out your hymen and eat it," st★rchild says. "Would that be ok with you?" "Do I have to eat it too?" "Only if you want to." "Because I don't want to." "Ok. That's fine. You don't have to. We'll split it. If you agree, of course. You don't have to answer tonight—" "I'll do it." "You will?" "I'm not using it for anything else." "Ok. Great. There's a second part—" "Don't tell her the second part," st★rchild says. "She's heard enough for now. We'll tell you the rest later." "What's the rest?" St★rchild looks at me. "Should we tell her now?" she whispers. I say, "Corinne, we're planning on doing the same thing to Olive. Appetizer and main course." Corinne looks at Olive, her hand goes out to her. Corinne looks back at me. "Just be gentle," she says, and a tear rolls out of her eye. St★rchild leans over and hugs Corinne, this tiny nine-year-old comforting her, and Corinne lays her head down on top of st★rchild's. Corinne is really crying now, and she asks st★rchild if she can go. St★rchild nods, and Corinne goes to the bathroom. St★rchild slides into Corinne's chair and brushes the baby's face, bends down and kisses her. She stays there until Corinne comes back. "Are you ok?" Corinne says, "Yes. The idea of it is just a little hard to accept." "I know. It's not what you would normally think to do." "It's not." "I know. But no one's going to be hurt and we're going to have a good time. Promise. Ok?" St★rchild rubs Corinne's back. Corinne wipes her eyes with scrunched-up sleeves, and exhales. "You ok?" "Yes," she says, and she looks at me and smiles. Her eyes are extra bright because of the tears, little spots of light, and she smiles again, this time bigger, more solid, and I can see she's ok with the plan and probably DTF after the hymen cutting. Lancôme texts us she's on the way. I order her entree. We're gonna cut your hymen out with an X-Acto knife! my brain is screaming. You're gonna let us do that?! But Corinne was with us now, she would go along with us in most anything, she was part of the family. We needed to sniff her asshole and see if she was into shitplay herself, not just as an accomplice. The whole lot of us needed counselling, but I was the only one getting it. Stop it with the whole obsession of virginity! You're 35, you should have moved on by now! Eaten breakfast, gotten ready for dinner. You'd be eating out and at the table next to you is this hot girl in a black dress and you thought her traveling companion was too young to excite her. But they had young sex in the box, captured in a bag. All you needed to be was young, then you were in. We were all there once. It was delicious. Fraternize with those your own age. Don't break the age rules! Never a st★rchild. You must have convinced her to fuck—when actually doing that was obvious to everyone, from about 5 on. My cat was in the restaurant, and we were dissecting it for the main course. Lancôme would have her in spades. She would try to jump off the table but Lancôme would fork her, knife her, and she would be still. I was eating spinach-food, leaf by leaf crunching across a hymen freely given. The obsession with eating it? To make it a part of you, to ingest it and digest it and make it a part of you. St★rchild had her cocaine in a small carry-bag, and she laid it out directly on the table and did it. I saw her inviting Corinne with a handshake, and the two of them sniffing lines of coke off the restaurant. Bathtime? I just wrote down whatever I saw. If st★rchild and Corinne were doing coke at the restaurant, I wrote down that st★rchild and Corinne were doing coke at the restaurant. It was simple as that. The writing did itself. When we shitplay, I write down shitplay. The story tells itself. Lancôme gets back, sees that we're doing cokeplay and sits, she eats her entree and the server is bringing us John Doe's with the Firewater Lancôme bought. Even Lancôme has one. "It'll make you forget your name!" And we're all having one. And st★rchild has three, and I have four, and Lancôme's calling us taxis and st★rchild practically spills coke on the table next to us, that black dress? The tenses were getting all messed up and we decided to pause for dessert, which was crème brûlée and it was like once one person decided on crème brûlée then everyone had decided on crème brûlée. So st★rchild left the coke tools aside and dug into her crème brûlée and then she's putting out a tiny pile of coke on top of her crème brûlée and doing a bump. Corinne follows suit. That means she does the same thing, if you didn't know! I'm mad on my John Does not knowing who my name is and then the taxis are here so we're rushing out of the restaurant, st★rchild trailing behind trying to gather up her coke tools and it's me waiting in taxi number one and Lancôme and Corinne in taxi number two and Tommy and Jimbob or whatever their names are in taxi number three. St★rchild makes it into the taxi, still eating her crème brûlée. It's raining, which might be part of the reason we got the taxis. I don't know, st★rchild is paying for them. Then we're all back at my apartment, and Lancôme dismisses Brad and McChortles back to their hotel while Lancôme, Corinne, st★rchild, Olive and I all chill at my place. St★rchild immediately starts making more drinks, but instead she shows Lancôme how to do it so she can make the John Does. "Just keep 'em coming." Lancôme camps out in the kitchen, chatting on her phone and periodically making a new John Doe for me or st★rchild. Corinne has the baby down, and she comes out to join us. "Why don't you take off your clothes?" st★rchild suggests. "No!" "Why not, we're going to cut your hymen, you're going to have to get naked for that." Lancôme doesn't even raise her head at this news. "You get naked," Corinne says. St★rchild stands and strips. She walks around the back of the chair while she does it, balancing. She gets down to her panties. "Now you." Corinne asks Lancôme for another John Doe. She makes her one. But Corinne sits in her clothes, not budging to take them off. After her next John Doe st★rchild is lying between my legs blowing hot air into my crotch, and Corinne is watching this skeptically from her chair. "Let me at least eat your pussy," I say. "I won't do anything disruptive. Just let me lick it. I want to put my tongue on you, Corinne, it's this all-consuming thought." "Let him," st★rchild says. "I'm surprised you don't want a piece of it." That's Corinne. "I don't want a piece of it. I want it for my man." "Let me do some more coke." "Is that what you want?" Corinne does about three more lines and she's down, slinking off her jeans and taking her shirt off over the top of her head. Panties and bra. Soon to be just panties. Soon to be just Corinne, standing there, naked. I lay her back on the couch and spread her lips. See her hymen, it's the translucent half-covering kind, plenty of mass to cut off and eat, small bites, but bites nonetheless. I lick her, and st★rchild is pulling off my pants, Lancôme still just chillin' in the kitchen on her phone. St★rchild is lodged between my legs sucking my dick while I lick Corinne, and I lick around her vagina opening and her hymen especially. Give it extra little licks. I can't stick my tongue into her vagina because of it, but I can stick the tip in, above the hymen. Corinne is quiet during this, but I look up and see her face, and it's pleasured. She has her hands around her vulva, presenting it to me, framing it, and st★rchild is close to getting me off. St★rchild takes her mouth from around my dick and says, "Lancôme, I need another John Doe. My glass is empty." Lancôme says she's sorry. "If you were smart you'd get in on some of this action," st★rchild says. Lancôme explains she doesn't feel like she's part of the "family." "You're as much a part of it as you want to be." "I think I'll just watch you guys from over here." St★rchild goes back to sucking my dick, and I'm licking Corinne's clit and wondering if she's ever had an orgasm and if that would be possible tonight. I know I can make her cum fucking her. But that would have to wait until the night of the hymen-undoing. Tonight was just tease. Corinne's shaking her head. "Fuck st★rchild," she says. And st★rchild is pulling me away from Corinne and pulling her panties off and Corinne pulls her legs up beside her on the couch and watches as st★rchild move into the chair and st★rchild sits on top of my cock and bounces herself off, then slowly grinds me off, and there's cum dripping out of st★rchild's pussy and Corinne watches the whole time, her nipples hard. And I look into Corinne's face while st★rchild is fucking me, and I try to read her. We're connected, now, now that I've licked her pussy. She can't act distant around me anymore. I've had my tongue inside you. I've licked your clit. Licked that hymen that is blocking the rest of your pussy from me, blocking it in such style. We're just prepping the incision site, getting it nice and soft for the day we're going to take a small razor blade and incise you, cut out that flap of skin and gnaw on it like a fine beef jerky. Lick your blood. I would love to see Corinne on her period, eat her period blood right out of her like I do with st★rchild. Would love to have that part of her inside of me. To be invited to see that private moment, would fuck her through the blood, put my bloody penis in her mouth and rub it around. She keeps her distance. But she let me lick her. It's a start. I want her pussy, want to be the first one to go inside it, right after we clip the hymen. St★rchild is feeding me John Doe juice from her mouth, and the alcohol almost has me vomiting—I have to catch myself a couple of times. Corinne is sipping hers, still naked, and st★rchild gets off my dick and sits in the chair next to me, her legs spread, her pussy facing Corinne. Corinne's pussy is hidden, she has her legs bent to the side. I'm going to have to wash my couch. Corinne's pussy juice is on it. And the chair that I'm sitting in and the chair st★rchild is sitting in, all covered with juices. Maybe get Lancôme to do it. "Lancôme, do you wanna do some coke?" "No thanks." "We have plenty. You're invited to try it." "I'm good." "Does she ever do coke?" I ask st★rchild. "I've never seen it." "Have you ever done coke, Lancôme?" "'Ignorance to coke, man, ignorance is bliss.'" "Have you?" "I think she has." "It's just that I'm working, right now, I can't get high on coke." "Don't worry," st★rchild says to Corinne. "You're part of the family." "I don't know whether that's a good thing or a bad thing." "It's a good thing! You get to play with us now!" "That's what I'm worried about." "You just played, wasn't that nice. My boy can sure eat pussy, can't he? Or do you not know 'cause you never had it done before?" "You don't have to answer her." "No, I never had it done before." "Corinne, Corinne, what have you been doing in life?" "Taking care of your baby." "But we have to get you laid!" Corinne smiles. "We're gonna get you laid. You need to have the feel of a dick in your pussy, that cockshaft, Cori. You never even did it with a dildo?" Corinne shakes her head. St★rchild massages her pussy, gets the cum all integrated into that shit. "We're gonna get you a dildo. As soon as we cut your hymen out and you get fucked by this one, we're getting you a dildo. You'll like it, Corinne. Do you mind if I call your Cori?" "No." "Do you know when I lost my virginity?" "When?" "When I was five. I started early. I had the hardcock of a nine year old named Frankie Uthers. It was before I got my period or anything. Then I had this small white dildo I would carry with me everywhere, sneak away to get off in the bathroom over dinner. Come back to the table satisfied. Then skip ahead, I met this motherfucker, he had a virgin-killer dick. Are you familiar with the properties of a virgin-killer dick, Cori?" "I guess not." "Show her your dick. See how small it is? But it gets bigger. That's going to fit inside your virgin pussy so right, you won't believe it. He'll loosen you up, that's for sure, but it won't hurt like with killer-whale dick. For your first time, you don't want that shit. I'm too young for killer-whale dick, I need virgin-killer dick all the time. It's perfect for my nine-year-old pussy and I think it's going to be perfect for your nineteen-year-old virgin pussy, just you see." After that people went to bed and Lancôme left, it was just the family. I went to Corinne's room on the way to mine, opened the door. "Corinne?" "Yeah?" "Wanna talk for a while?" "Sure." Olive was quiet. I laid on the bed between her and Corinne. "I just thought we would familiarize ourselves with each other." "Ok." "So how do you like working for st★rchild?" "It's..interesting." "You probably never had someone offer to cut your clit out in your previous jobs." "My hymen. You're cutting my hymen, not my clit." "Oh, right. That's what I meant. What do you think about working for someone famous?" "I don't mind. I don't really think of her as famous anymore. She's just my boss." "I know what you mean. When I was first fucking her in the ass, she lost some of her star power for me. Later, in the shitplay, she became a commoner, with no special powers whatever. Of course she still remains famous, but not to us." "Yeah, totally. Are you going to try to rape me?" I move away from her. "Corinne, no. We want to do this right, with the hymen cutting and all, and then you and I can have consensual sex if you like, as a celebration, and I can come in you but not make you pregnant and after that you can have sex with whoever you like, without worry." "'Cause I thought you came in here to rape me." "Absolutely not. I want to talk about st★rchild, since we both know her well, but from different points of view." "Does she know that you're in here?" "No." "So you don't think she'd be mad?" "I doubt she'd be mad. If I was eating your hymen without her, she'd be mad. She won't be mad for just talking to you." "So what do you want to talk about about st★rchild?" "Do you find her sexually attractive?" "I'm not really into girls. I suppose I like her more than the average girl." "Do you have any tampons I could borrow? I'd like to suck on some of your menstrual blood." "Used ones?" "If possible." "I don't save them." "Maybe you could start? I'd also like to start wearing your panty liners. It will prepare me for sex with you, if I can touch to my penis something which has or would touch your vagina." "I.." "If you could masturbate me with one of your panty liners, tonight, that would also help me prepare to have sex with you. Just take one and put it on my dick, wrap it around, and rub. You could rub me off that way, that way you can get used to my cum, and I can get used to cumming with you. Would that be something you might be interested in?" "I'll get one." She leaves the bed, rifles through her stuff, comes back with a panty liner. "You want me to get you off with this?" "Please." "Ok." She removes the sticky tape covering and sticks the panty liner inside her hand, then wraps her fingers around my cock, which is immediately hard. "Is this good?" "Perfect. Now rub." She rubs and I cum in no time, thinking about her virgin pussy and how it lies next to these panty liners during her period. The panty liner becomes her pussy, in its purity. It is the pure image of her pussy. I squirt out over her hand; it's hot running down her. "Was that good?" "Yes. You did a very good job. I can't wait to cum inside you." "But you have to wait." "Oh yes, I will. You want me to help you wash your hands?" "No, I got it." "Can I borrow a pair of panties?" "What are you going to do with them?" "Nothing. Masturbate. I won't get them dirty." "Let me wash my hands first. Do you want to keep this panty liner?" "No, I want you to wear that one, and take my smell against you, and feel if you like it, feel if you can take my virgin-killer penis inside you." Corinne was a moment washing her hands, and she set the panty liner delicately inside her suitcase. She rifled around for a pair of panties and handed them to me. "Are those good?" I smell them, rub them on my face. "Have you worn them?" "Not since I washed them." "They're ok. Next time get me a pair you've worn." "Are we through now? I have to get to bed and I'm afraid we're going to wake Olive." "We're through. See you tomorrow." "See you." I went to my bedroom. "What are those?" st★rchild asks. "Did you go ahead and fuck that girl?" "No, no. I just borrowed a pair of her panties to jerk off with, get used to thinking about her in a sexual way." "I doubt you'll have much trouble with that." "I might. I'm used to my st★rchild, getting used to plain Corinne might take some doing." "She is plain." "I'm not used to having sex with plain. I'm used to having sex with exotic, nine-year-old, superstar. You know, this might be difficult for me." "Poor baby. Gets to take Corinne's virginity and it's a hardship. I feel for you. Get in bed." I set Corinne's panties on my TV stand and get in bed with st★rchild. "What took you so long?" "I wanted to talk to her." "What would you and Corinne have to talk about?" "You." "Well, granted." "We talked about your fame, how we've gotten used to you and you seem to have other aspects to you, other than your fame, that we relate to." "You're so intellectual." "So are you." "No, I'm not. You put that impression on me. You're the smart one of the two of us. How's your book coming along?" "I have seventy-thousand words, I'm thinking it's going to be about a hundred-thousand." "How do you know in advance how many words it's going to be?" "Because I write on a schedule. Two-thousand words a day, sometimes four, so I can tell you the exact day I'm going to finish writing, within a few days." "I would have thought it would be more..organic." "It's organic within a day." "Well, I'm rooting for you, make it a good one." "This one's sort of writing itself." "What do you mean?" "Like this conversation, everything we say, I'm typing, see?" "You can type that fast?" "Yes." "Get rid of that thing, snuggle with me." "I don't think you've ever asked me to snuggle with you." "Well I'm asking now. Don't waste time!" I put my laptop to the side of the bed and insert my dick between st★rchild's buttcheeks. "This is your idea of snuggling?" "I wanted my dick to snuggle too." "Someday you're going to wake up and I will have covered your entire room with shit, it'll be all over your bed, and you'll wake up in the stink of it. Do we have any bran muffins left?" "You want me to bring you one?" "I'll get one in the morning. Do you want to go to the movies tomorrow?" "Sure." "I wanna go see a movie in Times Square." "We can do that." "Funny, the things we do in LA versus the things we do here. We never went to see a movie in LA." "You were making movies." "It's nice to get away. I want to do some shopping tomorrow, too, without Corinne, just you and me." "And Brad and Tony." "Yes. Do you want to do that?" "Sure." "You'd say yes to anything I said, wouldn't you?" "Probably." "No, you would. I love that about you. Fuck my ass and let's go to sleep." Even though I had just gotten off, the feeling of being between st★rchild's little butt cheeks made me hard, and I agreed to fuck her ass and go to sleep, quietly, and I was glad I had learned to cum on the medicine. My overall interest in sex was drastically declined from before the medicine, but with enough visual stimulation or other significant fantasy I could consistently cum. We went to bed and I was thinking about what st★rchild had said, about covering my whole room with shit, and I wondered if it would be tomorrow, if that's what I would wake up to. Then I fell asleep. In the morning I woke up to st★rchild, next to me, eating a bran muffin. Whenever I think of bran muffins, I think of my dad, who is obsessed, by route of bran muffins, laxatives, and all manner of ingestibles, with taking a shit at the exact same time each morning. He exhibits a sick amount of regularity. And I find his obsession with this to be morbid, gross. But maybe it's where I got a start at being also obsessed with shit, though to a larger degree, and with much more diverse consequences. Bran muffins. My dad also used to shit with the bathroom door open, so while we were eating breakfast we could smell his shit. Maybe that had something to do with where I've gone in terms of shitplay. I wonder if st★rchild has had similar experiences as a child, but I don't ask her. She's sitting up, reading news on the iPad. I roll toward her and play with my fingers on her leg. She smiles and puts her hand on my head. "Did you like eating Corinne's virgin pussy last night?" "Mmm." "Did you think you could get into having sex with that?" "Mainly I want to eat her hymen with you. Last night I was talking to Corinne and I accidentally said we're gonna cut out your clit, not your hymen. Imagine if we actually did that." "I have imagined it." "You don't want to do that to her, by surprise?" "No, but I like thinking about it." "You're a sick motherfucker." "That's why we get along." "You don't mind just hanging out with me in New York?" "No. Of course not. I'll eventually have to go back to LA, or somewhere, if there's another movie." "I understand. What if I asked you to cut off my dick and feed it to us, would you do that for me?" "I think I like your dick right where it is, young man." "I'm not a young man." "Would you shut up I'm talking. No, I wouldn't do that for you. That's for desperate Germans who are caught up in a culture quite different from ours. Isn't it good enough that we're cutting out Corinne's hymen for you? Aren't you happy with what you're getting? Do you need more sacrifice, like Amanda Knox? Or do you want to get sued by her, too?" "Are you going to do the cutting or am I?" "We'll flip a coin. One of us will do Olive, one of us will do Corinne." "Flip a coin is good." "Too bad you don't have a foreskin, we could cut that off as well." "Too bad. Are there any more bran muffins?" "There's one. Want me to get it for you?" "No, I'll get it." I walk out of the room, naked, and go to Corinne's door. I open it. Corinne is sitting there with the baby, playing with her arms. "How did you sleep?" "Pretty well. How is st★rchild?" "She's been up, reading, she seems fine." "You're naked." "Do you mind?" "No, I just thought I'd note the fact. Did you masturbate with my panties yet?" "No, not yet." "I wonder if I'll know it, when you do, if I'll feel it?" "Like in the ether?" "Yeah." "Don't know. You want a half of a bran muffin?" "No." "Well I'm sure st★rchild wants to go out for breakfast, can you wait till then to eat or do you want me to cook you a couple of eggs?" St★rchild called Lancôme and Lancôme called Tony and Brad and the seven of us had breakfast in my neighborhood. We had lox bagels, and shit, which we carried with us in stool sample containers with the tiny forks, which we used to shovel shit out onto our bagels. I thought it was fantastic but I wanted to brush my teeth. Then Corinne and Lancôme and the baby went back to my apartment, and to buy supplies for Olive, and st★rchild and Tony and Brad and I went shopping. St★rchild had numerous specific venues she wanted to hit, and we hit them all. People recognized her, but she wasn't doing autographs today so she ignored them and let Brad and Tony keep everyone at a distance. She and I existed in a protected bubble, where we could look at clothes, talk to store clerks, try on clothes, and look at st★rchild in her new outfits. She had everything delivered to my apartment so she didn't have to carry bags. "How does this look?" "It looks sexy, baby. Do you think this story has enough conflict?" "Conflict is dead." 'You're right, you're right. What about this one?" "You want me to try that on for you?" "I'd like to see you in it." "Be right back." People were taking pictures of us, just trying on clothes, people with their camera phones, and then full-fledged paparazzi, at which point Tony and Brad were hardly enough to keep us shopping. "Do you wanna go home?" "Oh, I'm sorry, does it bother you? I'm used to them. This is my life." "It takes some getting used to." "Just forget about them, you're going to be in the papers, there's no way around it. St★rchild shops with famous author. Boom. Get used to it. They're going to have us buttfucking a pregnant baby out my ass, whatever." "You mean that a baby might be..that you might be pregnant in your ass?" "They'll say anything! Just let it go. You're in my world now." "I generally like your world." "I generally like yours. But each has their problems, doesn't it?" "What problems does mine have?" "That you're writing me into your book. You can't be around a writer without them writing you into their stories. Did you ever think that I might not want to be in your story?" "If you don't—" "I do. I do. I adore your writing and can't wait to be seen as part of your..literary..universe. But imagine that some people might not want to be..written into your stories. You write them anyway, because they work for you, but it's a liability. Your world is as perilous as mine." "I never thought of it that way." "Well. Do you like this?" "You look hot, baby." "But is it better than the last one?" "They both look good." "Men are useless. I'm asking you..which one you like better. You can give your opinion. I'm not going to be mad at you." "I like the other one." "You like the other one better?" "Yes." "Ok, thank you. That's very helpful of you. I'm glad I brought you shopping. You're a good shopper." "I'm going to run out of steam in the next hour." "We can stop. You've had enough? Do you still have some of that stool left over from breakfast? The sample jar?" "No, I threw mine away." "I threw mine away, too. Imagine the guy taking out their ttrash seeing all these stool sample containers next to napkins and leftover bagel fragments.." "St★rchild, you're beautiful." "What was that for?" "Just..because." "I know an Indian place that's really good, we'd have to go downtown, but.." "Let's go. Subway?" "I can't. It's too dangerous. We can take a cab and Tony and Brad can get a separate cab." "That's fine." "I'll give those guys the address. Hold this." In fifteen minutes we were downtown, at Gandhi's Indian Restaurant, Tony and Brad's cab right behind ours, and the restaurant was so skinny you could almost touch one wall with your left hand and the other with your right hand. I had never been here before—one person's New York is not another person's New York—but it smelled amazing and st★rchild and I chose a table close to the kitchen, Brad and Tony sitting one table in front of us. The restaurant was so small that no one would see us in it from the outside, and if we had fan trouble from inside there would be so few people that it wouldn't be a problem. I thought the waiters were being extra friendly to us but who knows. Maybe they're just that friendly all the time. We ordered garlic nan (I loved that st★rchild was unafraid of garlic) and vegetarian dishes. St★rchild and I split a couple bottles of wine. We sat there forever, it was great, and I heard Brad and Tony talking, something they rarely do, and it made me feel all the more at home. "Do you want another bottle?" "Fuck yeah!" "You're the coolest girlfriend in the world." "I just wish we had more shit with us. It would be great with this paneer masala." "Not a lot of places will cook paneer masala. Only the north Indian places." "You're a pretty cool boyfriend, yourself." "Yeah, you like me?" "Oh you know I do, baby. I can't wait to read your next book." "That you're living." "Yes, it excites me that you're writing about us, I want to see how you represent me. And all our hobbies..how are you going to show the stool containers at breakfast and my relationship with Olive..will you make it realistic, the way it is, or will you couch it in established stereotypes of motherhood." "Believe me, I'm not couching shit. You'll appear just as the mother you are." "Irresponsible." "Worse." "And how will you make yourself appear? Are you the hero?" "No. No, I'm the antagonist, even though I'm the main character." "Are you sure I'm not the antagonist?" "No, I'm not sure. I'm not sure about anything, even how to end it. I have ideas. But I'm not sure my ideas will come to pass." "St★rchild will tell you how to end it." "Yes, she will." "Are we splitting another bottle or?" "Excuse me, can we get another bottle of this? Thank you." "You boys want something to drink? Have whatever you want. It's a special lunch. Get tipsy. See if I care." So they boys ordered Indian beer, and drank a lot of it. By the time the four of us were ready, and st★rchild had paid the bill, we were all sloshed. I didn't mind that st★rchild was storing up shit in her anus without discussing it with me, but I did mind that she was planning on getting rid of it without my involvement. I wanted to at least wipe her ass, and she was being very closed down about her shit lately. I knew she was going to sneak away when no one was thinking about it and shit in a toilet. I wanted to collect stool from her specimen, keep it around for later. I carried empty stool sample containers with me at all times. To fork a little bit of her shit off into a container would have been the light of my life. The little finger and the thumb were what I was worried about the most. That was where the fingernail polish didn't wear off. Where we chopped sentences in laboratories for posterity. Where you knew you would die but your words wouldn't, and the sickness of that. Where language was just an infection on the human phenome, and we decided to go shopping down here, first at this cheese shop that enamored st★rchild, then in the open-air markets, with Brad and Tony keeping close behind, one step behind st★rchild and me, and I went crazy, then, in my own streets, something of the alcohol spinning in me, and how delicate and dangerous the balance always was with st★rchild, one step away from a mob attack, just two bodyguards to protect us, but she managed to get quite far with a pair of sunglasses and a large hat, and we never stayed too long in one place, and we were moving, moving south along Manhattan streets, seeing dried fish products and the beginnings of Chinatown. You could buy amazing t-shirts here, stuff you'd never find in LA, and that's what st★rchild was after. Custom-painted shirts from Chinese stall vendors, little shops. She found the most ironic t-shirts, only the most original finds, t-shirts that were one of a kind. These she couldn't have delivered, so Brad held the shirts. You find, sometimes, that stopping a sentence in its middle is the best choice. Cut off those extraneous dangling phrases. Say less. When you go back and examine a text, trying to get to its source, it's all about who has the money, that's the only reason a town appears a particular way, it's how much money and leisure time you have available. It's all about money. But yeah we bought t-shirts, st★rchild even convinced me into a few of them, so we'd have hip clothes to wear when we were out and about as a couple. Mine was a blue one with chalk-gray type painted onto it, Chinese characters across the nipple in the front. And this shiny reversible one, my belly button's grown fat along with me, he's stretched and deformed, it's the most obvious symbol of my fatness, and I'm buying extra large t-shirts while st★rchild buys the smallest of shirts available, does she like it when fat me gets on top of her and fucks? Six and four. Burp, an alcoholic burp, as I sit here writing this drinking Seagram's gin and ruby red grapefruit juice, and sweating all over the bed I am sitting in to type, I imagine many yous, sitting in your various locations, in a classroom, in a park, in a dormitory, in a home on your computer, reading this. Where do we connect? Are you drinking as you read? Are you sober? I have gotten used to the liquor by now, it is hardly an impediment to presenting these statements and ideas to you. You keep reading? Is it because I have exquisitely followed the cookie-cutter format for stories? Is it because this story contains some previously-taboo items? You have your ancillary reasons for reading this. It is "important" by some standard. Can't you see through the facade? This is nothing important by past standards. This is a story about shit, about stool sample containers and people who eat shit and people who shitplay. Wash your body in shit and then return to this book. Sink your hands deep into the shit-laden toilet and then come back to reading this book. Eat a lox bagel with shit and then come back to this book. Let a loved one wipe your ass and clean it and then come back to this book. Just writing this makes me have to shit. How many shits have you taken during the course of this reading? Did you appreciate each and every one of them? I hope so. I take another sip of my gin and juice and think of you lovingly. Someone trying to hold onto this piece of literature, shit obsessed as it is, dutifully reading these chapters and reporting for your analysis. Your anal-ysis. Eating burgers from Friday's hoping for the golden nugget. Picking your nose. Wide-eyed, hands flexing eagerly. Some phrase from college, surfacing again, we were so impressionable. We thought if we played pool over it that it was over, one twenty-dollar bet, hyphens in the right place, that that was the last we'd see of it. We were wrong. There was a sock puppet whose face was made of clay. You had the wrong name on his zipper carrier, and he shat in the cage during the parade. It was the second-largest public gathering of any kind, after Mardi Gras, in the country. We had you hooked up to wires and we wired shit into your brain, conducted its power from source to its unquiet destination, the frequency of shit radiating into you. It was a loose-fitting shirt, black, and underneath was your subcutaneous skin rash, fought its way there in a bubble. The fingernail polish came off in sheets, and was left with the remnant of a manicure. I snuck alcohol all day long as I wrote this, reminded you to carry a shit towel and a water towel with you to the gym. It was a private ceremony. Only the bride and groom attended. They made duck sauce with our brains all day long and bet us bottom dollar that the comic book superheros would outlast. Of course they didn't, and what you had intended as your script for Disney turned into a juvenile exercise, not even worthy of the coffee table, stuffed in a drawer somewhere. The man had shit under his tongue and he was coming for me, shit underneath his fingernails, never scraped them out, and that was his armed and dangerous, shit between his teeth, drank from the tall cup of gin and juice. This will never be published, not in any form, you are the one person it was intended for and you are the one person who saw it. You know your name. I wrote it online, for an audience of one, and that is the audience it has received. What, for all these selfish references and dialectical side bars, it hardly deserves a glance, and that is what it will get. Did you ever drink through the day on gin? You should probably try to do that before you work on getting this book. Drink through a day on gin, work your stomach, watch Kitchen Nightmares a million times in a row, and fall asleep to cable television with bodyguards just outside your door, st★rchild sleeping beside you on the bed, drunk on schnapps and high on coke, crawling to get her clothes off the floor, then collapsing dead in the bed, in trance-like sleep with all the hyphens in the right place, the album starts again and I've got iTunes on repeat playing Nine Inch Nails and writing my book in the bedroom of my New York apartment with st★rchild beside me sleeping. Passed out, due to exhaustion from walking all day and consuming Lance's cocaine and drinking John Doe's from sunup to sundown. I had a cat in the refrigerator killing time. I instructed those who wanted to write books to focus on making statements. I made statements myself. This text is composed of statements. The previous was a statement. The closest we got to cooking dinner as a family was getting Corinne high on coke and us all ordering in from separate restaurants. Corinne needed it, she was some Ohio kid looking for action, she found exactly what she wanted, people who would guide her into adulthood without much effort on her part. Found a couple of scamsters who wanted to take advantage of someone who wanted to be taken advantage of. Found her in Corinne. She would have sold up her firstborn baby to us, and we would have been willing to take it, except we had our own. I was lucky st★rchild was knocked up when I met her, because I wouldn't have been the man to do it, never wanted to have children, didn't mind that st★rchild had one, though. Jennifer Lawrence was the first google search suggestion for Jennifer these days, and someone said she looked like a reptile. I didn't think so, I thought she had that same fuckable quality without a name that Corinne had, plain girl, you could take her from behind and get off, that little girl quality. That's what you were fucking, not the girl, but that little girl quality. I had black fingernail polish. This was all constructed in my brain. Every sentence, every statement, is the product of a singular brain that you do not possess, who is unavailable for comment, who racked snakes on a more, who scratched his way out of a box on delivery, whose skin was sensitive to the cardboard. It bumped up upon contact and the stockbroker was killing women in his basement with electricity wires. You knew the confession before he ever began. It aired on live TV on his birthday. Squeezed my fists together and tried to resist the restaurant chain. Urge to throw up violently, spraying on your walls in yellows and oranges with massive force, a growing beard of rejection. Kimlight dungle broseph tries with his ring finger, but fails. He never fingered a jack-o-lantern, he doesn't know the right flicking movement, and there are whole swamps of them, uneducated in the art, which is why we are stuck in this Indian restaurant forever, drinking wine and listening to st★rchild's theories on abduction and celebrity. She had wild theories about what it meant to be famous, and how and why she had gotten there. I couldn't take her seriously because she was only nine years old but her theories held their weight, I had to admit. What did I know of celebrity? I was only nominally famous and I could still go out or ride the subway without bodyguards, she was the famous one of the two of us. Name recognition was one thing; face recognition was another thing entirely. Pictures of her in scantily clad (ness) wrapped themselves around New York billboards like pythons. It's a weak simile, I admit, but it's one you'll have to deal with. I had to face this, being with her, her image projected forty times larger on a surface, her ass basically showing, her pregnant tits popping out of store displays in 3d. Those same tits I suckled milk off of, bitch-wide in the display, for everyone to walk between. This was us in the Indian restaurant, this is what we thought. Or what I thought, anyway, drinking Lindeman's shiraz with the st★rchild, hating her for being famous, loving her for being famous and mine. Goodnight, Ruby. Sleep well. Make an oatmeal muffin and stuff it down your face, drying out in your mouth, filling up your gut. Shit out poo and it looks exactly like the goop of Indian food, mushroom saag. What would your poop be like if you ate only Indian food? Softer, more pliable? Work that stomach acid. Work it. Scratch off an arm pimple. Make sure it's not a mole. Get Tony and Brad to follow you through the streets of lower Manhattan. What is doing this to me? Is it the bran muffin? I feel like I'm tripping. St★rchild, did you put something in my drink? No? Maybe this is just the normal feel for me now, maybe this is how things will feel from here on out. More mushroom saag? Sure, I'll eat that shit-looking concoction. Slop it on the plate, bed of rice. Forking it; putting forkfuls into my mouth. While I was working she played with my vibrator. She said fast speed made her cum, like made her cum. There was a bug bite on my hand like an ant and I scratched it with black nails. We needed to get back to the apartment. St★rchild was freewheeling with the wine and I was freewheeling with it, too. We had about a thousand commas we had to insert into this body of text, it was daunting. St★rchild thought we should just sprinkle them on but I had in mind a more manual approach. Would this be the first fight of our relationship? When would they stop shaming men with small cocks? It was already inappropriate to shame women for their bodies, but there was this little loophole such that it didn't apply to men, you were still allowed to make jokes about a man's small cock. I didn't see the logic. It was hard to write some days, because everything was falling apart, right down to my mind, but I wrote anyway, because writing made me feel good, it made me feel like I had accomplished something of merit. Even though I only had one reader, that one reader was almost more than I needed to keep going. To tell the truth, I would write even if no one was ever going to read it, because I like writing, as a thing to do. I didn't go to the gym again today, I was too scared to ride my bike there. I lay on the bed in a little ball and st★rchild did coke next to me and all I could think was at least I'm not doing coke but then her doing it made me want to do it so I snorted some coke and that was my day, eating Indian, getting drunk on Lindeman's shiraz, lying in bed doing coke with st★rchild. It's an ideal day if I didn't have fifty or sixty pounds I'd like to lose. "I like the weight of you on top of me." "But I'm unhealthy, like in a BMI sort of way." "You seem healthy to me." "But I'm not. My numbers aren't good. I need to start working out or bad things will happen to me." "Bad things are going to happen to you anyway." "But not this soon." "Do this line with me. I made it extra big." "SC, do you believe in the afterlife?" "No." "Me either." "So?" "So that means that all there is is us snorting coke and playing with shit and deflowering Corinne and Olive and us fucking and ordering pizza and you telling Lancôme what to do." "And the ocean. And New York. And LA. All the great foods you love and the weird games we can play with our bodies." "Do you want to pretend something with me?" "What?" "That you're killing me and you've decided to give me one more fuck at the end of my life, so you're on top of me with a gun to my head and you're fucking me, and as soon as I cum you're going to pull the trigger." "Do you want me to choke you while you cum?" "Yes." "Sure, I'll play that with you." So we played that and it was good and sick and I pretended that I was going to see the white light even though I'm not sure people who get shot in the head get to see the white light and I see myself seeing that white light someday and knowing that I'm dying and instead of feeling settled about it I would be screaming to go back, to not go through the tunnel, because I'm not ready to give up and I don't want to see it. I know they say if you focus too much on your fear of death that you're missing out on life, and I guess that means I'm fucked up, because I spend some time on my fear of death instead of just living to the fullest all the time. I'm a fucked-up person. I eat cats and scan the city for little shit-covered starlets so I can drag them into alleys with the scan cameras and, while security is watching, I strip them and clean them up, washing all that little shit down the drain. I have an eye for starlets, and they have an eye for me, because I rescue them from a certain type of boredom and they rescue me from a certain type of emptiness. But it doesn't last, it doesn't last forever. Because as soon as st★rchild and I cut that hymen out of Corinne's pussy we will begin to grow apart. Can we have an emotional conversation? I want to have an emotional conversation right now. I need it, it doesn't even matter what it's about. If we cry that's better. But no one wants to have one, because everyone's off watching TV, that idiot box that kills every customer. It's a little bit writerly—that's ok. My goal here isn't to be realistic. And I know some people will say this has no redeeming social value, and I can only bet that there will be those who disagree. But I'm trying to keep writing flat, non-structured, like a Jackson Pollock painting, as close to the surface as possible. Which is why if you are looking for meaning in this book you will be disappointed. I'm not shooting for meaning, as flimsy as that goal is. I'm writing a story about shit. It started out with shit and it will end with shit, and there will be nothing much more to it. Don't you hate those books that have to mean something? I'll dissect a cat. Dissect you right on top of it. Wanted to do surgeries since I was very young, when the room got dark and I had that need to have blood on my hands, someone's blood clots especially, twisting red and blue veins and arteries together, ripping them out at their source. An open carcass, you and I with tools, flashlights, peering in. That's a pretty good image, maybe you can forgive me some of mine from earlier. Just the way you move in a chair and it sends shoots of erotica through your penis. That feel of a horny penis, that penis that will spout at a hair trigger. That's the kind of penis I have, it has sensations when I'm just sitting still. It's a virgin-killer penis, lest you've forgotten. St★rchild, keep your hand on it in some sense or fashion at all times. The record player is playing slow now and it seems like we're on drugs. We are on drugs, but it seems like we're on different drugs. Las drogas. See! I put some Spanish in now this book is multiracial. Fuckers. The machine is going to eat you now. My spine is crooked because I sit with my legs a certain way. It will never go back, never be fixed. Corinne is going to be broken, Olive broken by our little experiment. We break each other in order to love each other. Bring on your women's groups saying a man has no right to write about a hymen. Fuck you. A man has every right to write about a hymen. I know you: you people who just like to be upset about something. And you will always find something to be upset about. It doesn't matter to you what it is. Just that feeling of controversy, of being victimized and violated, that's what you're in love with. You are working to maintain the very structure you rail against, the structure of the superior man and the inferior woman. It is the desert now. I am in a basket in a dried-up river bed. I am holding the head of a dead st★rchild, and I am clinging to her, wanting her to once again be alive. St★rchild, hold my dick. Wrap your fingers around it and justify its existence. Lie on top of me, just lie, after you do your cocaine lines. Make a tunnel with our hands and pretend we are looking at each other through a special tunnel. I'm not in the desert anymore. I'm in my bedroom with st★rchild leaning away from me to do more cocaine, leaning back, keeping my dick warm by lying on top of it with her naked self. If we could only fast-forward and die like this, we'd at least be in the same room as each other when we died. I could hold your head and then die, and it would be ok. There's a theme here. I wrote about that before, about my mother holding me in her arms while I died, and I don't want that to happen, but it would be a great way to die, in the arms of someone you love. I can smell st★rchild's hair. It has this way it smells when she hasn't washed it in a couple of days. I don't want to die. I want to live, to be with this one, for as long as she'll have me, and I don't know if she feels the same way back, or if I'm just another guy that she's with for a while. I don't want to pressure her by asking. I can't shake the thought of death. The more lines I do the more I think about it, and the more I want to do lines. "St★rchild, have Lancôme order some food." "What do you want?" "Just have her pick any menu from my pile of menus, and order food off of it. I don't care what it is, I want it now, and if she doesn't want to get it, I might have to fuck her too." "Ok, ok, calm down." St★rchild puts on her panties and goes out into the living room. She tells Lancôme how to order the food, and shows her the pile of menus. When she comes back in the room I tell her to sit on my face. "I want to panty-munch you." "You can do whatever you want." She sits on my face. I eat her through the panties, cloth all in my mouth. "I'm thinking about stopping doing cocaine," I tell her. "I think you should," she says, "if that's what you want." "Thanks." "Do you mean just for today or for good?" "I was thinking just for today. It's making me think about death." "Aww. Yeah, stop." So I go back to panty-munching her, and I press my tongue inbetween her lips and I'm rubbing the fabric of her panties all over her but she wriggles them off and puts her vulva in my face and I eat, glorious, glorious, eat. I just gave my cat the thumbs-up sign. I think she's proud of me for writing this book. My psychiatrist says I'm psychotic, that I have a "psychotic process." Do you think this is true? I think I'm simply more imaginative than normal people, I'm not sure there is any psychosis in it. Just because I can say something that you don't understand doesn't mean that what I'm saying doesn't make any sense. My cat understands this. My penis is raw from masturbating last night. I went with the video of the girl with the clear dildo and st★rchild was in my bedroom while I was in the living room. The girl with the clear dildo did all her tricks but it wasn't enough to get me off. I had just come back from the gym and was getting all kinds of tingly feelings all over my body, I think I was too generally excited to cum, like there wasn't enough of a cum differential between my penis and the rest of my body to have a penis cum. Pretty sure that's what the problem was. St★rchild recognizes my raw dick from these sessions, she knows about the girl with the clear dildo. So you've written a few words..you want to be immortalized? I've had pussy that was as hard as beef jerky, as dry. By comparison, st★rchild was bubble gum. Popping that bubble gum pussy. Grammar checker has a problem with every word in that sentence. St★rchild, get me a glass of water. (When you can make your superstar girlfriend do menial tasks for you.) When you get off on that, the power that you have over a st★rchild, what she wants from you. When she wants that so bad she'll do anything to get it, bring you glasses of water, fly across the world, put your shit in her mouth, anything. I won't lie and say it wasn't satisfying to see her eat my shit. I was happy to eat hers, but the joy, the complete glee it gave me when she ate my shit, was untouchable. To see how low the st★rchild had gone to be with me, and I was willing to go as low to be with her. When the stool sample containers came out, that was my Christmas Eve. Shitting the baby was just pure entertainment. To see her squirm once the diarrhea was on her, it's terrible, a terrible thing to have done to a baby, and that's what made it so much fun. Just like my dad used to make me clean out my shitty underwear with my hands, we had gotten hands on. Thanks, Dad, your legacy lives on. Those little abusive games you played with me as a child, have reinstated themselves in grander form, and we're going to torture the shit out of this child. Wish you could see me, father, wish you could take part in these games. We'd extract your shit that has to happen at the same time every day and smear it in your face, tie you up in just your socks. You deny every part of it but I wasn't the crazy one, you did those things to me, my memory isn't wrong. That's a horror of mental illness: the so-called normal people around you have the chance to discount everything you say based on the fact that you're mentally ill. Everything good you do is a fluke, everything less than stellar is due to your mental illness. Any complaint you make against them is invalid because you're the mentally ill one. They're safe in an illusion of sanity and they tyrannize you in all aspects of your life just because one part of you is broken. This is what I think about while I'm eating out the st★rchild, her perfect pussy on my lips, my tongue all the way inside her. I need to get in some good writing time today, maybe put st★rchild in the living room and me stay in the bedroom with my laptop, get a good two thousand words done. Live in my fantasy. The problem is when you don't know what's real and what's not. Well I say there's a questionable region in there, where no one can claim to know whether certain things are real or not. There are some unevidenced things that cannot be dismissed and some evidenced things that can. Giving st★rchild tongue, though, that's worthwhile, that matters, that is indisputably good, at least in my world it is. To give that child pleasure was worth everything to me. To know that I could, gave me value. Simple tongue fucking. It was exalted to me, holy. "St★rchild?" "What?" "I love doing this to you." She laughs. "I love it too." "I wanna do more shitplay tonight with Lancôme, get her involved." "What about the boys, you want me to call them?" "I prefer being in my universe of girls, but thank you." "Your butt thanks me?" "My butt will be thanking you when you lick me there." "Roll over." "I'm not done with you yet." "I said roll over." So I do, and st★rchild is spreading my cheeks, licking my asshole, and it is cathartic when someone does that to me, it's like a miracle, and every single time it makes me cry. Crying tears of joy, of that so-sensitive place being touched by someone else. It's the most sensitive, the most private place, even more than genitalia, and to touch it is a revelation. I put my head into the pillow, push into it with my face, let my tears come. I breathe in sharply, several times in a row. St★rchild knows what this does to me, she's used to this reaction. I breathe out, letting the breath go completely out of me. When I breathe in again it is choppy and interrupted, staccato little breaths adding up to one big breath. To be processed like this, by the st★rchild, is divine. "So what do you want to do tonight?" "We tank up on food throughout the day, everyone holds up their shit, and we do a dry shit bath on the shower curtain, then everyone showers together to get the shit off. And you have to go one at a time, on the shower curtain, so we can watch each person shit, then we just play with it, eat it, vomit, whatever happens." "Ok but guidelines: no one gets to put shit in my hair." "No, mine either. But it's ok to put shit on your face." "Yes. And if Corinne needs to vomit then she can vomit. You don't think you'll have to, do you?" "I might. I'm not as good as you. Where is Olive in all this?" "Olive plays too. We pass her back and forth, we take off her diaper, let her do what she wants, she can crawl around in the shit if she wants to." "You know what I'm thinking?" "What?" "I don't want Corinne or Lancôme involved in this. I don't want people who are going to half-ass it and make fucktards out of themselves. You know?" "I agree. This is serious play and we only need people involved who can take it seriously. Corinne can take pictures or Lancôme can. Corinne can be responsible for cleaning up Olive, like last time. Lancôme is an excellent photographer, you know." "She is? Cool. Cool. I'm feeling this. Let's tell Lancôme to order double food from wherever she's getting it from, so we can eat now and be ready to shit at like..eight o'clock?" "Deal, I'll go tell Lancôme and I'm coming back to finish licking your asshole." "Deal," I say, overwhelmed, knowing she's going to lick my asshole good, and that I'm going to have a nice cry into this pollow of mine. "One of my earliest memories," I'm telling her, while she licks my asshole, "is of going somewhere in the house and squatting, and shitting my underwear. They were training me and I hadn't gotten completely used to the underwear, so I would still shit myself sometimes. When my dad found out that I had shit my underwear, he would get very angry and drag me by the arm into the bathroom, where he would make me take off all my clothes and clean the underwear myself by rubbing them in the toilet with my hands, like you would train a dog, rubbing his nose in it. I've come to learn, through years of therapy, that this was an act of humiliation perpetrated by my father, and that I have come to be very concerned with class as a result of it. Matters of class, who is more valued and who is less valued, are a central idea in my thinking. I have a need to assert myself as a member of the upper class." "And you have fought all your life, with your writing, to be seen as a member of a greater class." "Yes, I have." "I at least wanted to be rich, rich enough that I was in a greater class than my father was. And even before I began to write so seriously, when I had other jobs, I made sure I always made more money than my father. I hate that it's so important to me, but it is. I categorize people as 'low lifes' when I really hate them. Think of people as 'degenerates.' I don't want to be like that. I want to get rid of the humiliator/humiliated dynamic in myself. My psychiatrist says we learn how to do relationships based on our earliest relationships. One of my earliest relationships was humiliator/humiliated and I'm still stuck in that. I play the humiliator, because I don't accept myself as humiliate-able. Nothing you can do to me will embarrass me, that sort of thing. Playing, always, like I've got winning hand." "And you do." "I definitely do. I'm done playing cards at this point. I don't want to feel the need to humiliate anyone, anymore." "Does this mean we can't play with shit anymore?" "No. I love playing with shit with you. I just need to make sure, in my own mind, that I'm not doing it to humiliate you." "I like being humiliated by you." "I know, that's 'cause you're as sick as me." "I grew up being raped," she says. "That's my early relationship I learned from. By my dad, by my uncle, by my cousins. It was like open fucking season on st★rchild! So I don't know what the name of that relationship is, but that's mine." "I don't know what the name of that one is, either. Maybe abuser/abused." "So I want to be the abuser." "Right. Because you were the abused." "That rings true. How I treat Lancôme, how we treat Corinne. You don't know the half of what I've done to my assistants." "I believe it." "No, I mean, I've been really terrible." "I bet you have." "I definitely want to be that way with my contracts, I'm the abuser instead of the abused, but it's not right, past a certain point." "I hear you. I humiliated a lot of people in my early jobs, coworkers. It feels good, but it's not ultimately satisfying. I'm trying to grow bigger than this shit, you know?" "I know you are, baby." "We both can do this." "I..think I'll hold on to my abuser paradigm for the moment." "I don't think when I was nine I knew the word paradigm." "That's one I learned from listening to you." "Oh, baby, that feels so good. I could tell you stories all day while you do that." "And I could do this to you all day, you taste beautiful to me." "Being the abuser feels good to me, it feels to good, I don't know if you should hang around me anymore." "I can handle myself." "Can you? Because I'm not sure I feel so good about everything we've done together." "I wanted it." "Yeah, but maybe because of some sick shit that happened in your childhood." "So? That stuff is me. That's the real me!" I pull away from her so her hands aren't on my cheeks anymore. "I don't want to abuse you." "But I want to be abused!" "And I don't want to humiliate you, so from now on, the shitplay isn't humiliation, it's like Africans playing with elephant dung, it's holy to them. That's what we're doing, or at least, that's what I'm doing." "Got it. But just because you're not humiliating me, doesn't mean you can't abuse me." "I'll have to think about that one." "I'm gonna go tell Lancôme about the extra food." "Cool, I'm gonna get dressed and come out there. I want to play Playstation. And no spicy food. I want solid shit." Skip ahead. It's about seven-thirty. I'm lying in one of the chairs in the living room. Lancôme is holding Olive and Corinne and I are duking it out at Tekken. St★rchild is on the couch next to Lancôme, and I see her stand up on the couch and go for the panty jar on my bookshelf. "Uh uh ah. What are you doing?" "Getting coke out." "No you're not. No you're not! Stop her Lancôme!" "I can't." "St★rchild! Stop! What the hell." "What? What's your problem?" "We've got to do it at the same time. I don't want you shitting without me!" "Relax. I'm just getting it out." "But don't take any." "I won't. Watch your game." But I'm beating Corinne, I have all the moves memorized for this character. "Fuck! Fuck me." "Sorry." "I'm done. Gimme Olive." "It was fun playing with you." "That's the last time I'll ever do that." "Who's next?" "It's time." "St★rchild? You want to play me?" "You've spent too much time mastering that thing. It's time." I flop the controller down. "So lay it out." "I'm trying, if you'll stop yelling at me." "I'm not yelling. Set it out." "Lancôme. We want pictures of the entire evening. But use my phone. Everyone else's phones are off-limits. Are you ready to do this?" "Lancôme. Bring me a John Doe." "Make it two." "So lay out the lines." "Are we gonna do big lines?" "Yeah, just start us out with humongo lines, do it all in one swipe." "Ready?" "Go." We sniff these huge lines that St★rchild has going all the way across the mirror. Instantly I'm high, heart beating out of my chest, and almost instantly after that I have to shit. "Do you have to?" "Yes, do you?" "Yes." "Lancôme, get over here! We need you for pictures!" We move to the shower curtain, which is spread out behind the chairs in my living room. I grab st★rchild's toe. You ready for this?" "Lancôme, hurry! I've got to shit." Corinne has Olive on the couch and she's just watching. Lancôme sets two drinks on the coffee table and grabs st★rchild's phone. She stands in one of the chairs and starts taking pictures. "Do you want video for this?" "Yeah, whatever, just..are you recording?" "How much space do you have on here for video?" "A lot. Are you recording?" "Yeah. Go." St★rchild turns her butt to me and gets up on her knees. I'm waiting. I spread her butt cheeks. "Don't shoot it out too fast. See if you can let it drop down onto the plastic." "I'll see what I can do." I see it, from the middle of her asshole, the beginning of her shit, and it's coming out and coming out more, and her asshole gets wide and the whole shit is coming out toward me, and I put my hands around it and help it come out of her. It breaks off and drops onto the plastic, coating my hands which are latex gloves this time. "Is that it?" "Nope." And a whole other log comes out of her, breaking as it falls, and I pick up one of the pieces and squish it in my hand. "Is that it?" "I think so." I stick a finger up st★rchild's butt and ream her out. There's a little more shit in there. "Are you getting this?" "Yes," Lancôme says. "Did you take video?" "Yes." "Now you! Now you shit!" So I turn around and put my butt in st★rchild's face, and I'm leaning forward on my hands. She spreads my butt cheeks and I'm kind of hoping Lancôme is going still photography for this one. I feel the shit forming. St★rchild has gloved hands on my butt cheeks, and she leans forward and licks my asshole real quick. "Be careful," I laugh, and I'm looking over at Corinne, watching us. "Are you having fun?" "Delightful," she says. "Ok, here it comes." And my shit is coming out solid, and st★rchild is massaging my buttcheeks to make sure it comes out of me, and it goes "plop, plop" on the curtain, then st★rchild has one hand coming through to my dick and she's squeezing it and I wish I had done something to her like that while she was shitting but I'm an idiot. I feel her hot hand on my back. She's rubbing my own shit on me and it warms me. "Lancôme, turn up the heat." "Where is it?" "See? Right there." Lancôme goes to the thermostat. I'm frozen, st★rchild rubbing shit on my hips and I'm watching Lancôme's legs cross the room and stand at the wall. "There," Lancôme says. "That should be better." I sit up and turn around to st★rchild. We have a pile of shit between us. It's easily distinguishable: two different colors. I take some of mine and spread it on st★rchild's waist, and Lancôme is kneeling beside us with st★rchild's phone. There is a flash. St★rchild grabs some of her shit and rubs it all around my neck. The smell is wonderful, vanilla, cinnamon, a frankness, and she's making a necklace all the way around me, our bodies touching at the nipples and genitals, our knees getting in the shit, and I go for her between the legs and rub shit there. She grabs my dick, and it's getting hard, and she rubs my own shit on it, then coats my balls with a handful of hers, pulling down on my balls so she can over the entire scrotum, then she's jacking me with one hand, my dick completely hard. The shit loses its temperature quickly. "I want to have sex like this." "I want that too." She's kissing me and rubbing shit on my cheeks. I have my hands around her butt and I'm sticking fingers inside her asshole. "Stay still. Lancôme, get some stills of this. Every angle." Lancôme does it wordlessly. She's kneeling all around us, lying on the floor next to the shower curtain, standing up, and even once taking a tentative step onto the curtain for a closer angle. "I want to fuck you." "Go, baby, go, do it, don't wait, be inside me." So I'm laying her down, and we're both lying in the shit pile, and it smears out behind st★rchild's butt. And I'm grabbing shit from the curtain and rubbing it in her armpits, rubbing all the way up her arms and into her hands, where we lock fingers. And I'm kissing her on the face, and there's shit between our lips, and I'm finding her with my dick, and sticking myself inside her, and pressing in, and in, and in. And she has my shit inside her, and it lubricates us, and I'm fucking, and fucking, and I can't see Corinne but here comes Lancôme around in front of me taking our picture. And I'm pounding st★rchild, fucking so deep inside of her, and I'm 100% hard. "Cum in me." "Don't you want to cum?" "I want you to cum, I want you to cum in me now." So I speed up, and I'm banging her, humping her, and I start thinking of Corinne, watching this, and I get even harder and st★rchild is looking me in the eyes and then thinking about fucking her makes me even harder so now I'm about 115% hard and I'm getting right before that point of no return and I don't want to leave st★rchild hanging but she said she wants me to cum so I let it go past the point, rubbing inside her shit pussy, slamming my shit cock into her, my shit balls slapping below that. "I'm going to cum in you." "Good, baby." "I'm going to cum in your right now." St★rchild grabs the back of my head, and she's getting shit in my hair—against the rules. I'm about to cum. I grab both sides of her head, getting shit in her hair—against the rules. Then it's too much and I start getting off, the feeling rising in me, and I'm panting over her, banging the shit out of her, and I'm fucking, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—! I'm shooting off, spraying up into her pussy, coating her cervix inside and out. And I realize I'm grabbing her hair, pulling it out of her head, and she's gripping, squeezing her whole body together, holding my dick so tight between her legs. I let go of her hair and see I have a few strands in my gloved hand. Lancôme is still in front of me, I can only assume she's at the end of a long video segment. "Hi," I say to the camera, then collapse over st★rchild, my head falling to the shower curtain, and I have shit on my forehead. I notice st★rchild's breathing, slow, measured, full breaths. I squeeze my penis inside her and she squeezes back. Corinne claps. "Bravo. Bravo!" St★rchild says, "And Olive didn't even cry." "She was getting into it, like when you were fucking, she kind of glazed over." "Yeah, she's into it. You like when mommy and daddy fuck, don't you?" st★rchild says to the ceiling. I'm reaching down, grabbing st★rchild by the hips, squeezing her tight, feeling the shit squish. "Now where's that shower head of yours?" St★rchild is running her hands through her hair. "I've got some deep cleaning to do." "Yeah, there's a setting on there that's perfect." "That's what I'm thinking?" "The one where it makes three solid streams?" "Yes!" St★rchild kisses me. "I can point one of those right inside of me." "How are we gonna get from here to the bathroom?" "You walk it," Lancôme says. "Walk the shower curtain. Like scrunch it up and then slide part of it forward, then scrunch it up again." St★rchild and I are looking at each other like, "That makes sense!" "I don't want to get up though." "Neither do I." "Does it stink in here now?" "Look, you got a little on the TV stand." "Gross. Lancôme?" "I'll get it. You want me to get you a new shower curtain?" "Yes. No. Get us two." "You wanna do this again sometime?" "Maybe." "Nasty girl." "I just let you fuck shit up my pussy, so yeah, I guess I'm nasty." In the shower I ate out her shitty pussy while she was spraying water into her from directly under my chin. Then she just sprayed it, and I laid back. We were both sitting in the tub, and the long cord of my shower attachment reached down to st★rchild's vagina. "We're weird." "Yeah we are." "Do you think you'd be able to find someone else to do this with?" "No." "Did you have a good orgasm?" "Fucking..fantastic." "I like thinking about your cum and your shit mixing inside me. Sorry I had to wash it out." "I liked having shit on my dick." "We're both gonna have to wash our hair, though. And Lancôme! Get some candles to burn out there! Like potpourri! Is that ok?" "Fine." "And Lancôme! Empty all the trash cans tonight." We had peeled off our rubber gloves into the bathroom one. "I've got a surprise for you." "What is that?" "Lindsay is coming to visit us later this week." "When?" "I don't know exactly, but sometime this week definitely." "Should I get my lawyer?" "No, let's keep this..just between us. For now." "My lawyer'll probably be real pissed if I meet her without him." "Well, I don't want her to be on her guard. I want you to walk her through the book and why she doesn't want to sue you. Maybe read her sections of it, sections she'll like." "I don't know." "Meet her my way just once and if it doesn't work out we'll involve the lawyers." "Ok. Will you let me wash your hair?" I washed that red hair, scrubbed her scalp with my fingers, got it clean from root to tip. It has come to my attention—while her hair is washing we can discuss this—it has come to my attention that perhaps the baby (Olive) in this book is a bit of a 1-dimensional character. Now there is the matter of describing an infant who has not developed a personality yet and there is the matter of this infant being taken care of by Corinne, not the main character or even the main character's girlfriend, and there may be other matters. I am aware that babies come pre-packaged with some of their personality, and that even infants who seem to only cry and sleep, actually do other things which express their personalities. There is a question of whether the infant has been adequately described, or whether the lack of description of the infant makes sense given the protagonist's relationship to it. I am not entirely satisfied that an answer can be given to this question, yet I am sensitive to it since I do not have children, and have never raised an infant myself. Now the same could be said of st★rchild and the "me" character in this book, that they have never raised an infant, since Corinne is doing the raising of the child. I find this to ring true with some Californians I have known. Some say the voice in Things Said in Dreams sounds too masculine, and they have trouble believing the narrator is a girl. Well there's no such thing as the narrator, so it can't be a girl or a boy. You might say that when writing something you don't personally know about, that you do your best to model the unknown thing and let the chips fall where they may. But even this would be wrong, for it is quite possible for a male to write a male protagonist who I have trouble believing is male. Half of why you think a protagonist sounds male is because the author is male. Maybe a good author can convince you that she is a male or vice versa. But I see photographs of women who look like men (who are unconvincing of their female-ness) and photographs of men who look like women. What am I to make of any of this? I don't even think the goal is to write something that is believable as real. There are more than one reality that can be believably suggested by pieces of writing. What's more, your goal with a particular piece of writing may not be to be realistic. It may be to create something of its own, which is not paired with any reality. In the end, writing is a crap shoot: it's like writing a computer program where every processor that runs it is a different architecture. Every book strikes each reader differently. Should this book be different? Should it be deeper? More realistic? I don't think there is a "should" there. There is just what is, the text, and the various readings of the text. Olive is st★rchild's baby. She has farmed out the care of her baby to Corinne, and only takes charge of her again to play shit games with Olive and the "me" character. The "me" character recognizes that Olive is a sacred entity, a whole entity, and an entity that does not entirely belong to him. He is willing to spray diarrhea all over this living entity because he and st★rchild are locked in a game to which the two of them hold the keys, and they feel superior to everyone around them, thus expecting adults and children alike to participate in their game without question. I have counseled Sian S. Rathore (an alt lit baby) not to write about serial killers, because they're boring people, because they lack a conscience. Does my character violate this same rule, in not-caring whether he takes a shit on an infant? I'm not going to answer that, I'm leaving it to the reader. It is not my job (I declare) to provide answers to questions, but rather to pose questions through the writing of books. So answer these questions yourself, I'd better return to writing this one. (St★rchild's hair is done washing.) We finish showering from the shit fuck. My shower head is well used by both of us for masturbation and we're certainly clean of any shit by the time we get out of the shower. Funny how women get all the credit for shower head masturbation when it works both ways. Same thing with vibrator masturbation. All the advertising is aimed at women. Most men in my culture would be pleasantly surprised to see what a good Hitachi Two-Speed could do for them. I was lucky to discover my parent's multi-attachment vibrator when I was two or three. Been using one ever since. The orgasms are out of this world. Strictly speaking, much better than fucking, though fucking has its plusses. So we go back to the bedroom and st★rchild sits on my butt giving me a back massage. "I'm really worried about this Lindsay suit." "Tell me about how you're feeling." "I feel worried. I could lose everything, if they award her damages. I don't think I deserve to lose everything for just using a name that matches hers in a novel." "Do you think what you do can really be described as a novel?" "Do I think it deserves a new genre? I don't know. I don't know what you'd call it. Something with elements of fiction, elements of fact, the closest I've come to naming that sort of writing is to call it "photoshop." "I see what you mean, but that doesn't have a real ring to it, does it?" "I guess not. You can press harder. Yeah, like that. It's gonna be your turn in a minute. Ahh, that's wonderful. I wrote a thousand words today." "Did you? That's great, baby." "I want to write a thousand more." "Do you want me to stop so you can write?" "No, that feels good. Do my hands, ok? My wrists and my hands. I want to tell you something. Before I met you, I used to look at your pictures on the internet and masturbate. Not even sexy pictures, either, just pictures of you in color so I could see your hair. I would imagine what it was like, fucking you, imagine your face when you came, what kinds of sounds you would make. Does that bother you?" "No, I know that all kinds of people masturbate to my pics. It doesn't bother me. It makes me feel special. I want to be wanted by them. 'You can look but don't touch.' That's all it is. Except now you get to touch." "And I'm lucky for that, and don't think I don't know that." "You're not lucky. I wanted you. You're just loving me back from what I gave you." "Do you think dialogue in scripts has to make sense? Like do people have to understand it?" "I think it does." "See..I don't think it does." "Ok." "I think it has to flow. But I think it's ok if the audience doesn't understand every bit of it. It's like a music lyric that you don't understand. You make up your own words to fill in. That's just how you hear the song, until you look up the lyrics and are like: is that what that says?" "I'm not a writer." "I'm not trying to put you on the spot. I just wanted to know what you thought." "Here, switch me." St★rchild lies down and I sit on her butt, put all my weight into her. "You want it hard?" "Oh yeah," she says, already relaxed. So I give her a back massage. I've never trained for this, but you sort of pick it up, you know? I'm rubbing from the bottom of her back to the top, rocking my fingers into her, then moving up. St★rchild farts, and I feel the heat of it on my testicles, then smell it. Her beautiful smell. That particular way of processing food. If we were animals I would know her by the smell of her farts, track her around the jungle that way. "You know what I want?" "What?" I ask. "I want you and me and Corinne and Olive and Lancôme to go back to LA and make another movie and for everything to be like it is now forever. Will you tire of me when I age?" "I don't think so. Maybe. You might have to hire concubines." "I'll hire you all the concubines you want, as long as you stay with me." "I'll stay with you. You're my little moviestar dream. Just keep being sexy." "You keep being sexy." "As long as you think my belly's sexy." "Oh, I love your belly. When I say that, I'm borrowing pretty heavily from one of your earlier books." "Borrow away, that's why they're there. You really think we make a good pair?" "We're perfect! Who else gets shitfucking?" "Probably a lot of people." "Not people I know." "Maybe we should meet some friends, place ads on the internet." "Wanted: shitplay." "Exactly. You think we'll find people who will squirt it out their ass and play with it?" "Maybe. People are into all sorts of things." "I'd rather convert some of my existing friends." "That too. Do you have people in mind?" "A few." "So you want us back in LA?" "Doesn't matter, I just want you on the set of my next film, we can come here inbetween. You seem to be able to write with me in your life. Right?" "Seem to be. Yeah. We're pretty compatible." "Neither of us us has a drug problem." "Right. I drink a lot, but—" "So do I. And a little coke isn't going to kill you." "I like a little coke." "We're not breaking any laws." "Well." "With Olive we might be. Probably. But no one's going to tell." "Corinne and Lancôme seems safe." "But you never know, with assistants. They can turn on you." "Yeah?" "Yeah. One minute you think you're safe. The next minute it's on TMZ." "That sucks." "You don't even know." "Well, I do. I've seen your stuff on TMZ." "You've read all of it?" "To the very beginning." "Then you saw my snatch on TMZ before you ever saw it in real life?" "Yeah, but it looks different on TMZ." "Different? How?" "It looks more fucked up on TMZ." "Yeah, the angle of that picture is fucked up. I look like some sort of alien-monkey." "It's much better in person." "Thanks. But you see what I'm saying? You can't trust a Lancôme. You can't trust a Corinne. That's why I had Lancôme use my phone to take the pictures. You can't even really trust that." "No?" "People's phones get hacked, bro!" "Yeah?" "Yeah, they take your contacts, your pictures, everything!" "Let's get those pictures off of there, then." "Yeah, you see how it feels, now that it's your picture about to get hacked." "Seriously, let's get those pictures off there." "Tomorrow. We can move 'em to your computer, if you feel better about it." "Do you think we could go to jail over Olive?" "For shitting on her? Or poking her hymen?" "Both." "I don't know..child abuse? Is that a crime? I think you're supposed to be nice to children." "But your own child? Is it a crime I'm saying." St★rchild shrugs, and it messes up the tension relief I was trying to get to her upper shoulder. "I might google that later tonight, just to see." "Wouldn't that be sexy," she says, "if we both went to jail." "I love when you fart," I say. "Good, because I've got another couple stored up in there." "Well don't hold onto 'em!" She farts. Again I feel it on my testicles, and then her beautiful smell. "Did you just say wouldn't it be sexy if we went to jail?" "If we both went." "Sexy?" "The way we would look on TV. Boyfriend and girlfriend, both charged with the same crime, forced apart by the American criminal justice system." "You sound like a TV announcer." "We'd both be dressed in their clothes and we'd be in handcuffs even when we were in court." "We could probably be charged for a crime in Corinne's case too. Some type of assault or battery. If she decided to turn us in." "But she'll never do that, she'd be too embarrassed. She wouldn't want to tell them what the crime was. Uh, officer, my friends removed my hymen?" "I wonder if they'd charge us even if Corinne said she was down. They can do that, you know, charge you with a crime even when the victim doesn't want charges to be brought. They did that with Roman Polanski. The sex victim totally wants the court action to stop, but they keep charging him anyway." "For what? Rape?" "Rape, yeah." "Do-gooder cops." "You should do a movie about cop killing." "If you write it." "I could do that. Could you get it made?" "In this town, probably. I mean LA." "Yeah. They'd probably make anything if you were in it." "That's pretty much how it works." "Name above title." "Name above title, baby." "I don't believe I'm dating you." "Is that what we're doing? Dating?" "I feel like reaching into your butt right now and pulling some shit out." "Go ahead." "Is there any shit up there?" "I don't know, I can't tell." I scoot down on her legs and spread her cheeks. Then I put one finger in her butthole, all the way in, and I scrape my fingernail around the inside of her rectum. "Be careful." "Am I hurting you?" "A little. It's ok." I pull out the finger. There is zero shit on it. "You have a clean rectum." "We should get a rectal thermometer, then you can stick that up my ass." "Ok, I'll have Lancôme order us one." "Have her get two, just in case we break one." "Can you imagine, a rectal thermometer breaking off in your ass? Shit." "You could probably force it out." "Yeah but not if it broke off deep inside. You'd have to go to the emergency room. My sister works in an ER. She tells me these stories. Like women coming in with coke bottles stuck up their pussies. They were masturbating with them and then the bottle created a seal, so they can't get it out." "What do they do, break the bottle?" "No, they can't break the bottle 'cause it might cut them, then, inside their puss." "I like it when you say 'puss.'" "Well get used to being happy, then, because I'm going to be saying puss quite a lot. Puss is one of my favorite words. I like everything about puss. Puss is my best friend. I like to fuck puss. It excites me to stick my dick in puss. I like to lick puss. I like to eat puss almost as much as I like to eat butt. Puss is no substitute for butt. Butt is no substitute for puss. Puss makes me happy—" "Ok, I get it. Thank you Mr. Didactic." "You're welcome, Miss. Using the Wrong Word." "What? I thought didactic meant—" "Not the right word." "You're on page one hundred-fifty now, how does it feel?" "I feel confused." "How?" "I don't know why I'm writing this book, am I doing it because I really like shit and wanted to make a tribute to it? I think dirt is important, you know, it's like one of the major elements of the world, it's a big part of what we do, is get rid of shit, turn shit into usable elements, it fertilizes our gardens, and we hide it so much in this culture, I just thought it might be nice to put shit out there for everyone to see. Plus I like picking your butt." "I'll let you pick it again when it's ripe." "Please do, I'd like to rape your shitty butt." "What if you fucked me so hard I bled?" "In your butt?" "Yeah, shit and blood." "I would like that, definitely." My dick starts to get hard. "I'm going to rape your shitty butt." "Rape my shitty butt." "I'm going to rape your shitty butt." "Yeah." "Can we do it for real, like with masks and zip-ties and everything?" "Sure." "We can?" "Sure." "Ahh! I'm so excited. I'm going to rape your butt." "My shitty butt." "Do we still have extra shower curtains?" "Ask Lancôme." "Right. Of course." "Is your dick hard?" "Yes." I thump her with it. "I wish you could rape me right now. I mean you can, but there wouldn't be any shit on it." "Let's pretend that you're shitting on me to try to get me to stop raping you, but I keep raping even through the shit." "That's good. Except we're not going to be pretending, because I really will be shitting on you." "I guess that part won't be pretending." "No. Who came up with this idea, you or me?" "Probably you." "I can't remember." "I get to rape your butt," I sing. "Butt rapist. You can go to jail for being a butt rapist, you know." "Only if you tell. I'm gonna hold your head down when I do it." "And you're going to wear a mask?" "Yeah, a real scary one." St★rchild gets the shivers. I run my hands down her back once they've passed. "You're gonna rape my butt," she sings. Then I slap her ass real hard. "That. Really. Hurt." "Sorry, I just had an impulse." "I like the impulse but maybe not quite as hard next time." "Sorry baby!" "Don't worry about it, just kiss it and make it better." So I kiss her ass, and I'm licking, and I'm biting (gently) and I'm spreading her cheeks wide and eating her butt. St★rchild doesn't have the same reaction to butt-eating as I do. She doesn't cry. But she makes these little "ah" sounds that I love to hear, just the lightest little "ah." And she grips the pillow. Those delicate hands, holding on so she doesn't evaporate. Sweet st★rchild, thank you for being mine. Sweet st★rchild, you are everything I want, and more. Sweet st★rchild, come to me and never go away. (I'm still eating her butt, by the way, I'll tell you when I stop.) (Still eating her butt..just thought I'd mention that.) (Still eating her butt, I'll let you know when I stop.) (Still eating her lovely butt.) You know when you lay eyes on some sweet, sweet young thing and you just think to yourself: I'd do anything for her, I'd eat her asshole. That was the kind of sweetness st★rchild was. It was a privilege to eat her asshole, to be allowed to touch it. You didn't care what you were doing because that pussy was so sweet. Have I described, adequately, st★rchild's pussy? Should I insert a chapter at the beginning of this book describing, in detail, the star puss? Or can you use your imagination and extrapolate outward from the general concept of st★rchild and just know what her pussy must be like? I am going to hope for the latter, for I don't want to engage in any forensic description of pussy. You either have one or you've played with someone else's, and you know that pussy can get sweet and then pussy can get sweet. Or you haven't ever had pussy in which case I say: what are you doing reading this book Go out and get yourself some pussy, son. You can read this later, when you've had your fill of pussy and you really want to sit back and read about shit. Got me? St★rchild has star puss. That's really the best way to say it. Her puss is a star, just like she is a star, just like everything she touches is a star. I forgot about cocaine there for a moment. Kneeling here, eating st★rchild's butt (I'm still eating her butt!) I forgot that we have cocaine in the house, I forgot that we have alcohol, I was taken from those thoughts by these new thoughts of star puss. Starpuss consumed me. I was eating her butt but thinking of her puss and I got completely lost so lost that I made a run-on sentence. So lost that I forgot about cocaine and alcohol. Didn't even need them. They weren't even in my world. Starpuss. Starpuss. Tender child. You let me wreck you, and I wreck that pussy, wreck it up one side and down the other. Tear that pussy up. Little girls, little girls, I hope you're reading this virginally thinking, "that's what he wants to do to my pussy?" about your boyfriends and future boyfriends. Yes, he wants to tear. That. Pussy. Up. Do you like the idea of being torn? Get used to it, for this idea will be with you day and night, this idea will follow you to your grave. Tear you up. Ripping. Teeth. Violence eats you. In short, we want to take your pristine state and shred it, make your come to the dirty side, the side that makes messes of you, fuck your period blood right out of you, cum in you, on you, cum everywhere. Cum in your pretty little mouth. Desecrate you. Take what is sacred, and fuck it. (I'm still eating st★rchild's butt. I'll tell you when I'm done eating it.) St★rchild had that kind of pussy, but I never got to see it desecrated, I was too late and someone had already raped that out of her at five. Tough life. Hard to be a star. I liked to cum inside of her, though—can you blame me? With a pussy that size, I could fill her up with cum, it ran out the sides. Fill her up like a cup. She let me put in and take out her menstrual cup and it was one of the most satisfying things I've done as a man. To be invited to do that, to be invited in. To girl stuff. I have huge balls and the gargantuan mother called on me to save this planetary Earth. Just wanted to mention that. (I'm still eating her butt.) I have saved one of you from the usual peril to serve here as my aide. Want something unexpected? Turn the page. I was wandering in and out of consciousness for a while, there, no one held my hand. The doctor said he was not a psychiatrist but he thought a little inpatient time would be in order. I agreed, and I walked out of my life for a week. I walked out of my whole life a lot earlier, though, walked out of my job and walked out of my car and walked out of my girlfriend and walked out of my friends. You can just walk away, leave everything, walk. I recommend it. Go crazy. Stop following the rules. Become your own path. And then I was licking st★rchild's butt with manic frenzy, sticking my tongue inside it, spreading her cheeks wide. If a butt could cum, I was going to make this one cum. What kind of life will st★rchild have as an adult? I was stopping licking her now, stopping eating her butt (I told you I would tell you). And the look on my face was that of the radiant child, my hair going every which way and I was a prophet on a mission to bring a message of love to this one person, and licking her butt was the way to do it. I licked every inch of that butt I could get to with a tongue and the parts I couldn't get at with a tongue, I got at with fingers. Wove myself inside of her ass, I was a regular inhabitant there, would feel the plush inner walls of her rectum and imagine their red color. I saw it as a kind of sitting room for my fingers. Reaching inside her, pressing into the softness that is cavity for her shit, I became a parasitic part of her, needing to reach inside her mouth, her vagina, her ass. Those were my places on her, and her ears and her nose, whose contents I picked out with my fingers and ate. To eat her ear gunk, to eat her boogers, was part of the privilege of being with st★rchild. I wasn't about to let that pass me up. Look up "women who spray" on the internet. Figure out which hole that comes out of. Drink it. Drink the trail that your lover leaves. And when you go to sleep at night, tell yourself that this was all a fantasy, that it never happened, that I made it up. Your neighbors aren't really doing shitplay, they just like to think about it in books. And what if you are looking at your shit one day, and decide to reach your hands in and touch it before you wash up. What if, then? Are you one of us, one of the dirty, dirty shitplayers? You might be closer than you think. If you've ever tried intra-anal photography, that's simply a gateway activity to shitplay. So consider that before going into intra-anal photography. It doesn't exist. There's no such thing as intra-anal photography. Unless you google it and find something, then it does exist and there are special cameras you use for it. But I mean as far as reality is concerned, there's no such thing. Let's talk reality for a moment. I've never googled "intra-anal photography" and have no interest in doing so. I've never done any of the things in this book, I'm just making it all up! That's why it's called fiction, people! So don't go starting anal clubs and eating people's shit just because you read about it! But I know you, you won't listen to me, you'll make anal clubs anyway, you'll start eating hymens and doing shit enemas in Japan first, then the United States. Shitplay will become the next dancing. And shitfucking will become something that women want done to them by their lovers, and shower curtains will be purchased en masse. I'm not stupid. I know how you are. You might start by sticking your fingers up your butt, you might try an anal dildo, but it will start, from the edges, an obsession with shit. Play with it, eat it, coat your loved ones in it. Dry it and smoke it for all I care. Just be in the game. Don't let it pass you up. I remember my first shitplay, it was with a girl named Sarah. I was in the eighth grade and she was a junior in high school, and my parents thought she was too old for me. But she did show me a few things, aside from being the first person to suck my dick, she showed me shitplay in the shower, and I was instantly a fan of feeling shit shoot out of her ass. I rubbed it on her breasts, and she was proud of me. Her parents were a lot more liberal—they didn't care if we had sex. But I wondered where she had learned how to do it, if one of her parents was a shitplayer. I never knew, but that's what set me up, was putting my hands over her butt and feeling the shit come out through my fingers. Later I shit in her mouth, and then she sucked my cock. She was the first girl I ever shitfucked, and it was like she was making me do it, forcing me to shitfuck her. My dick gets hard just thinking about Sarah, even though she married young and went off to live in Seattle. I wonder if she shitfucks her husband, or if that was just between me and her. I remember her crying when I shitfucked her, and saying, "Oh yes Oh yes Oh yes yes yes yes!" when she came. Sarah came like a champion. I could get her off with two fingers in a minute flat. Now she's in Seattle with that loser. If I could I'd send her a care package with a nice sealed bag of shit just to remind her of our time. I could send her a package of st★rchild's shit, and be like, this is really from st★rchild, the st★rchild. And she would be impressed that I had captured st★rchild's shit, she would understand the meaning of that more so than my shitless family members, my shitless mother and shitless sisters and my questionable shit father who, in his rituals and routines around bathroom time, and his subjecting us all to his shitting, might have a shit's chance in shit. But my sisters were shitless, no question, and my mother was shitless, no question, and I had turned out the only shitful sibling of the three. I like to look at baby pictures of me and think of that child growing up to be the shitful me that I am today. That kid became me. But I was always shitful, from the moment I was born. Always loved to play with it, never had an appropriate relationship with potty training. It was as if potty training had cut off from me some essential part of my play routine, which was, simply, playing with and eating my own shit. That grew me into this adult, which, when met with a counterpart such as st★rchild, who had her own shit issues, goes crazy with the possibilities. So as much as I'd like to play cool, I really do eat shit (in small amounts on some occasions), I really do like to shitfuck, and I have every intention of eating Corinne's hymen. It's just a special thing we can do together, mark the occasion. Her hymen is going to get destroyed one way or another, we might as well cut it out with an X-Acto knife and eat it..that's a better treatment than she would get from a man fucking it out of her, leaving it all hanging and torn. Anyway it doesn't matter what you think, we're eating Corinne's hymen for sure. Wash it down with a little milk, swallow what you can't chew, taste that privy little part of her vagina. Then (hopefully) I'll get to fuck Corinne, she will be a little gift from st★rchild to me, a slave offering. I am hardly as obsessed with virginity as I used to be, but the idea still entrances me, and if I get to fuck Corinne for the first time that would be nice. Make up for mistakes of the past. I hope Corinne cries when I do it to her, when I make that first incision, I hope the can't stand the pain and asks me to stop, while I keep going, cutting into her most delicate part. St★rchild can hold her down (here, lean back) while I do it, maybe stick a knife to her neck to force her to be still, and we'll cut out her little pearl. Corinne, does this feel better? Do you feel lighter? Cut up her pussy and eat out that little munchkin. Cut up her clitoris if we're feeling lucky. Leave no trace of her! St★rchild cuts her neck and I cut her puss and we leave her in a slump on the operating table. Corinne, Corinne, come to me, you'd never tell, right, that we did this to you? It's in your confidentiality agreement with st★rchild. How sexy you are to fuck in nail polished hands, my hands on your wrists delicately. Feel that tight cunt almost coming out of its socket when I pull back out of you, that's that virgin pussy, pink walls gripping my dick. That's my big dick tonight, we pull that one out for hate fucks. Hate fuck Corinne. Hate fuck Corinne. The formula is perfect, don't question it, don't go back, just continue on the way you have been cumming all this time. It was meant to work. You're supposed to have an orgasm. That's part of the formula. If you don't have one I'll give you your money back. Or a life on pills, one tiny one of which makes it impossible to cum, and you're locked in a life with no cumming, until someone as sick as st★rchild comes along and the fucking is just that good that you can even cum on pills. Come to think of it, I have an aunt and uncle who are shit fiends. Might have picked up a few pointers from them at a young age. What's left for st★rchild and I, after what we've done? Bondage? Drugs? I'd rather shitplay with that little mouse than do any of that other weird stuff. Fuck her on drugs? Who cares. Sadomasochism? Forget it. Role-playing? I'd rather have my finger up her butt when she takes a shit. Let her shit on my cock after we finish fucking. Make shit pizza where that's one of the toppings. I'm sold. I've found my game. And sure there was the fun of corrupting an unsuspecting citizen but I preferred going it with someone who already knew the ropes, who had come to me shitting and was shitting from the first day. I liked that st★rchild wasn't a virgin and I thought me and her should open a pizza restaurant where the pizza sauce was ⅓ human feces. We would have a little plastic baby that we would place in the middle of each pizza to represent Olive and baby shit. Shit Pizza, we would call it. I thought ⅓ human feces in the sauce made more sense than shit being one of the toppings. Can you imagine, though? Your favorite toppings, a wonderful thin crust, and between them, tomato sauce mixed with ⅓ human feces. Just enough shit to add flavor, without making the pizza inedible. We'd add lots of garlic to the sauce to cover it. Are there health code regulations specifically saying you can't add shit to food? There will be, the minute we open our restaurant, you know it. Surely someone's tried that before. If not, shame on us. I can't get to sleep tonight. St★rchild's lying next to me, reading a magazine and playing word games on her phone. The coke is out, and I'm thinking of having another line, by some reverse-psychology method of making myself tired. If I do another line, I might have to shit again, and shitting is so sad when I just do it normal, when I just flush it down. I want to save every batch and do something special with it, even if it's just feed it to Corinne. My bowels start to move, just thinking about the cocaine. I get up and go to the bathroom. Turn on the light, sit on the pot. I'm thinking about my dad and his same-time-every-day shit routine, and I'm shaking my head. In Freud's theories, what must have happened to my dad to get stuck in such an obsession? Was he stuck in the shit phase, where you get pleasure from withholding and expelling feces? What caused him to get stuck there? I didn't know, and I wouldn't get the chance to ask, since my father and I weren't speaking. So I took my shit, and it was disappointing and liquidy, I thought because of the John Does we'd been drinking. I stood there staring it at for a full five minutes, thinking of Corinne's clitoris and wondering whether she had ever clit-masturbated with it. I thought about sharing my shit with st★rchild but declined. If tomorrow was to be the big day with Corinne and Olive then everybody could probably use a break from shit tonight. I wanted to check in on Corinne, wish her a nighty-nighty, but it seemed too creep-like so I declined. No, wrecking st★rchild's ass would be all I would do tonight, I would stay in my defined compartment and stick to the asshole of one I knew. I flushed the toilet and washed my hands, brushed my teeth, and went back to the bedroom to do another line of coke off the nightstand. "Your friend has good blow." "Yeah, thanks for sharing." "No problem," she says, and I tackle her, turning her over and reaching for her anus. "I've got you!" "Ahh!" I tear into her flesh, spreading her cheeks and biting her on the asshole. "Owww!" "You're mine!" I tongue her asshole and get a couple fingers inside it. Is this exciting you? If it is you might want to consider the possibility that you're sexually sick. Don't worry, you're in good company, just find like-minded foes and get down to ripping some asshole open. Rip it open like I ripped into st★rchild's, taking what is mine from her, owning her asshole, fingering it deep and holding her down by her legs. "I own your asshole!" "Be quiet! Corinne is sleeping!" "What do you care?" "Ahh! Get off me!" "I own your asshole. It's mine. I can tear into it. I can eat your butt anytime I like and your butt will submit to my mouth, do you hear that, your butt will submit to my mouth!!" "Yes sir." I super-lick her asshole, a million times a second, and she squirms. Bam! I super-lick her again then I reach into her pussy and feel how wet she is. "Oooh." I stick my fingers up inside her, still super-licking her ass, and start fingering her like a madman. That's what I'm gonna do to this bitch, I'm gonna super-lick her asshole and finger her like I just got out of Bellevue until she cums in her pussy and then I'm gonna choke-fuck her until she cums again with little oxygen to the brain then I'm gonna flip her over and fuck her tiiiiiiiiiiny little stinkhole. "Say I win." "You win." "Say I win!" "You win!" Breathless. Then we're doing coke again and I wonder if this girl would like it if I sent her to the hospital. If I hit her that hard, if I raped her asshole too intently. I want to bruise her, bruise her pussy, bruise her neck, bruise her face. But I don't for now, I leave her intact, though it's brewing right under the surface that I would just go wild on her and beat the shit out of her. That's what I'm thinking as I lie in bed next to her, playing her word games and reading her magazine. What if I beat the shit out of her, mess her up so she can't do any more movies? Wouldn't that be a nice little gift from your lover. And I'm wondering if there's something in this cocaine that's making me like this because I don't normally want to beat st★rchild up. Maybe it's that I've been with her long enough that she can become a despised object, something to hate. They say familiarity breeds contempt and I have certainly seen it. Grab that phone out of her hand and beat her with it. Who's playing word games now? But I refrain, because I don't want to do jail time, which isn't the best reason but sue me, I'm human. "St★rchild, what would you think if I beat you to within an inch of your bloody life?" St★rchild looks over at me. "I'd say somebody..has had too much cocaine. Is that it?" I'm laughing. "I don't know but it's two-thirty." "So?" "So we have a big day tomorrow." "I'm not ready to go to sleep yet. You go." "I can't. I've had too much coke." "Know your limits there, big boy." "Is my asshole safe if I go to sleep next to you tonight?" "I don't think so. St★rchild, I am going to be eating your asshole until the day you break up with me." "Don't talk like that! I'm not breaking up with you!" "I'm just saying. Watch your corn hole. Watch your corn hole." "I'm wearing panties to bed." "Won't matter, I'll just rip them off you." "You're scaring me a little bit." "Good. Why should everything be so safe? I want to scare you." "Well you are. Now don't go beating me to within an inch of my life and if you want to eat butthole, ask nicely and we'll see." "Unacceptable." She puts down her phone. She starts crawling on top of me. "Am I going to have to discipline you? Do you need to be knocked back into line?" She slaps my face, hard. "Did you like that?" I turn the other cheek to her. She slaps that one. My hands are rising to her face and she's grabbing my arms, keeping them away from her. "Don't. Punch. Me." I get free of her grip and my arm is threatening to go for her. She grabs it again. "Don't be punchin' on me or I will break up with you." "Just a tiny one?" "No. Listen up. Are you listening to me? No punches." "Why." "Because I said so. Because you need to have some limits set for you, you think everything is your right." "So it's not even that you reall don't want to be punched—" "Of course I want to be punched by you, baby. I just think you get to do whatever you want too much, you've gotten used to this lifestyle where you can do drugs or slack off or not work or fuck my little girl friends and I don't think it's good for you to have no limits like that." "I work. When have I ever not worked?" "Do you think maybe your work would improve if you weren't drinking all the time?" "No." "Well give it a try sometime, see how it works out for ya." "Bitch." "What??" "You heard me. Slap me again." "No, I think you want me to slap you." "What's wrong with that?" She's getting my dick hard and quick sits on it with her pussy. "I think it's better if we talk like this." "I do too. I prefer to talk this way with you." "When we're all..connected up, things seem to go better." "Tiny fuck me. Just..baby fuck me..please." She rocks gently on me, hardly moving. "Now. We're gonna start by setting you some limits. You can't punch me." "What about Corinne?" "You can't punch her either." "Ok, no punching. I can agree to that." "Can you?" "If you let me eat your asshole." "You're allowed—you're allowed to eat my asshole only when I give you permission." "Like verbal permission?" "Verbal permission, yes." "Oh, that sucks. I just want to jump into you and do my thing." "That's what it is about you, you're doing your thing nearly all the time." "So are you." "That's different, I'm a superstar." "Oh! Oh! It's different when you do it?" "Yes—" "Why?" "Don't question me. Just listen. Asshole licking only with permission. Understood?" "Understood. For how long?" "Until I say different." "What else?" "What else is no scamming on Corinne. This thing tomorrow is strictly business, between you and me. Don't go catching feelings for that little ho, she's got her daddy eyes set on you, I can tell, and I don't need you encouraging her." "But I still get to fuck her?" "Yeah but it's business, get it, don't get all tender with her. Fuck her like a porno. Don't be kissing and getting all intimate like I know you like to do. Deal?" "Deal. But I still get to cum in her?" "Cum however you like, just don't be making up elaborate stories in your mind about Corinne and you. I know when that big brain gets cooking, you're liable to think you're in love with her after tomorrow." "Anything else?" "No, that'll be all. Just consider this your new regimen of following directions, and having a little bit of structure to your wayward life." "Will you pussy-fuck me now?" "What's that?" "That's a straight-up pussy fuck, you on top, boom." "Boom. Yeah, I'll do that for you." So she pussy-fucked me, and I came like I wasn't even on medicine. Filled that little nine-year-old pussy up with cum, it was dripping out the sides. "Do you want some more coke?" "Yeah, fuck it." "Do you want to do some off my ass?" "Lie down." So I did coke off her ass, laid that white powder on her butt cheek and sniffed a line. "Do you want to do some off my ass?" "No, but I want to do some off your dick. Lie very still." St★rchild sets my dick up on my belly and taps out a rough-looking line of coke. Using a straw, she does the coke off my dick. A little bit's left so she wraps it on one finger and sticks it up my asshole. "I wonder what that does?" "Duh! It goes into your blood stream. There's tons of blood vessels up there." "Can I stick some coke up your ass?" "Sure. See. You asked nicely, now see what you get." "I bet it would be easy to overdose like this." "Yeah but how much are you gonna stick up there?" "Not much." "I like this new well-behaved you." "Well don't get used to it, I'm not sure how long I can maintain." "Oh, poor baby, somebody clipped your wings." And on and on like that until it was four in the morning, and exhaustion was starting to outweigh the buzz we were getting from the coke. I'm lying on my back looking at the texture of the ceiling. St★rchild is next to me, doing stuff on her phone. She finally tells me that Lindsay Lohan is coming tomorrow to discuss the lawsuit and I say won't that interfere with the Corinne/Olive hymen cutting and she says we'll handle the lawsuit first and then we can get to the Corinne/Olive hymen cutting and I say ok, that sounds fine and st★rchild pets me on my forehead and I like it, like I'm her animal and she's keeping me in her bedroom. We're gonna have to drink drinks to get to sleep so I go to the kitchen and make two tall John Does and bring them back to the bedroom. Then I get two trazodones from the bathroom and offer st★rchild one. We take the sleeping medicine with alcohol. I can't think of anything more I want from st★rchild at this point, nothing she could offer me sexually, nothing I need emotionally, no gift of friends, no experience, that I'm wanting of. I wonder when our relationship will grow boring. Will I tire of her before she tires of me? Will I tire of her farts and think it's disgusting that she farts on my testicles? I hope not, but people do tend to grow apart. Will we get tired of our lives, languishing by the pool in LA, knocking around my apartment in NY? Will pools and restaurants and clothing stores become intolerable? Will we die of this privileged existence? When I think back to before I made it, there was no st★rchild willing to play with me, it was hard, it was debt and mental hospitals and moving around the country, and things got better, eventually, and lately it's been roughly the life I have now, same work, different parameters. A little bit of a name. More money. As much as I'd like to downplay money as a factor, money is a factor, definitely. Having some money is the difference between managing your bipolar in a dirty, disorganized, shitty ghetto mental health clinic and going to a psychiatrist in a nice building and having your mental health managed with dignity and respect in a convenient atmosphere. So yeah, I'm glad for the money. I'm going to do everything I can to make sure I always have it for what I need it for, and if that means selling movie rights to shitty production companies so that I can have the extra million dollars, you better fucking believe that I'm doing it. Fuck the movie. The movie can be shit. I got paid and I'm still alive. That's what matters. St★rchild is even more set up. No one can fuck with her shit. She makes more money than I make in a year, in a weekend. If she wants to, she can get paid to go to parties. One hundred grand for hosting a party in Hollywood. That's the kind of money we're talking about with st★rchild. And that's small money to her. She doesn't host Hollywood parties. That would be below her. About the only thing she gets out of bed for is a movie that stars her, and we're talking tens of millions of dollars. And I diddle her asshole. I super-lick her. If her butt could cum I would make it cum. That's how I approach sex with her pussy: I make it cum. I make it. It has no choice, it's like the vibrator on fast speed. I make pussies cum, that's part of what I was designed to do. I'd like to stick a paintbrush in st★rchild's asshole, then she could squat over a canvas and paint with her butt. You have to be careful about sticking long things in someone's butt, however, because you don't want to puncture the rectum. This would most certainly send you to the ER, and then you'd have some 'splainin' to do. I'm drinking off my John Doe, waiting for the trazodone to kick in. I almost take a second one. And it feels like we've been up forever, even though it's only been a day. I look at the clock: five-twenty. Drink more John Doe. Look over at st★rchild: her head is in her phone. I don't even want to have sex with her again right now, she has satisfied me to the point of tiredness. Mostly I just want to fall asleep, and for that I have to wait. Close my eyes. Sound of st★rchild's finger pressing the one button on her phone, the tiniest little squeak of a button push. I let out some gas, quietly, but I know st★rchild can hear it. Delicately, without my even knowing it, my body relaxes and I start breathing deeply and before you know it, I fall asleep. It's about noon before we wake up and Corinne has Olive out in the living room, pretending to make her walk, and Olive is laughing and smiling. "St★rchild, are you ready for the big day?" She turns over in bed. "What about you two, ready for the big day?" "I'm ready," Corinne says. "What about her?" Corinne nods. It's too much for her to say that Olive is ready for the big day, because Corinne doesn't exactly agree of the morality of what we're going to do to Olive, and I can understand that. "Ok," I clap. "Let's get breakfast. Get ready to go. St★rchild, that means you: get ready to go! Go! Go! I'll help you!" I pick out clothes for st★rchild and throw them on her. "This..and a little of this.." I put on a pair of her panties and grab my balls, rubbing my scent into them. "You're gonna wear these..conditioned panties..rubbed with the scent of your master." St★rchild looks above the covers. She sees what I'm doing and falls back down into bed. "He's conditioning my panties!" "What?" Corinne says, from the other room. St★rchild sits up. "He's conditioning my panties!" St★rchild stands up and comes to me and pulls the panties down. "Are these the ones you want me to wear?" "Yes." "Fine." She pulls them up on her. "And these clothes?" "Yes. Something in there." "Well get dressed yourself, I don't see you putting any clothes on!" "I have to do lines of speed before I get dressed." "We don't have any speed—unless you got some?!" "I mean lines of coke." "Well do 'em and get dressed. Since you woke me up!" A few minutes later we're all standing in the living room. "Corinne, are you ready for your special lunch?" "Mmm-hmm." "It was supposed to be a special breakfast but now that we woke up so late it's going to have to be a special lunch. Is everyone ok with that? Ok. You got the boys coming?" "They should be outside in a few minutes." "Is Lancôme coming?" "Yes." "You have everything you need for Olive?" "Mmm-hmm," Corinne says, looking very satisfied. Are you happy, little girl, that we are going to cut out your hymen today? Have you accepted your fate? Good little girl. Submitted to our family will, happy to be part of it. Part of the trick is we gave her plenty of time to get used to the idea, we didn't just spring this on her yesterday. She's had time to think. And in her thinking, she's come to realize (probably) that this is just as loving if not more so than (as I said before) getting it fucked out of her by (likely) some random dude that she'll never see again. This is at least as caring as that, if unconventional. I hope we don't injure Olive's pussy too much in the cutting. Pretty sure we can get by on Corinne without too much extraneous cutting, but with Olive I'm not so sure. Will have to pain-medicine them both up before hand. I've got some extra Vicodin left over from my kidney stones which we can certainly give Corinne. I'll have to ask st★rchild's permission to give Olive a fraction of a crushed-up Vicodin in her milk. "The boys are here." "Let's go." "And Lindsay is coming this afternoon so we might have to postpone our little operation until tomorrow." "Ok. Shit. We'll get that out of the way. You know, if Lindsay wins, I'm going to stop writing altogether. What's the point if you can't say whatever you want?" "Don't worry, we'll work it out. You're getting ahead of yourself. Just meet with her and see what happens." "Thanks for getting her over here." "Well she's not just here to see you and me. She was going to be here anyway and I convinced her to give us a couple of hours." "Well thanks anyway." "Shall we go?" I open the door. The boys are outside, with Lancôme, and the four of us pour into the hallway with them. We go to this diner I like up Broadway, take cabs there, it's incredible crowded but it's a fine diner, I think. We put our name in and are standing on the sidewalk, waiting. We do this thing my sister and I used to do when we were kids, which is always put in the name "Roosevelt," no matter who's in your party. St★rchild wears huge sunglasses and I have just a little bit of coke I've brought with us, just in case. "Roosevelt!" We go inside, and it's so crowded we can hardly get to our table. The hash browns here are excellent. With a little hot sauce?! Yum. "Do you have a child seat?" Corinne is asking. They bring her one, and we're set up in two booths right across from each other, the family in one, Lancôme and the boys in the other. "I might have another movie soon," st★rchild says. "What? When did you know about this?" "Just yesterday. I mean it might not be shooting for months. But. It's exciting." "Who else is in it?" "Well, that's all yet to be decided. It's in the early stages.." "Congratulations! Does it pay well?" St★rchild nods. "Good for you you, girl." "I'd have to go back to LA." "I understand." "Would you come with me?" "Yeah, probably." "What do you mean?" "Probably, yeah, I'll go with you..if you want me to!" "Of course I want you to!" "Well I'll be there." "Probably." "I just meant—" "Forget it. Forget the whole thing. It was important to me, but—" "St★rchild, please, don't be like that. I don't know what I was saying when I said 'probably,' I just—" "Just shut up. Please. I'm trying to order." So I shut up. I didn't like being told to shut up by a st★rchild, but she did, so I did. I picked out my meal and I watched Corinne play with Olive and thought of how it would be if I was on the outside of this little family we had here. Back to my pyramid of a few friends that lived mostly in other cities, back to writing my books without st★rchild in bed next to me. I looked at her, and she still had her sunglasses on, and I put my foot next to hers underneath the table and I hoped for the best. "Probably." I had just meant probably, like, who knows, I didn't mean, look I've got this other girlfriend that I'd rather spend my time with. I wanted st★rchild, who picked my nose and sucked me off in Denny's, who ordered pizza like it was going out of style and did coke so perfectly shamelessly that it made me flinch. This was my girl who would shitplay with me, and shitplay with her baby, which made it extra sweet. I couldn't have us breaking up so I rubbed her leg with my foot and hoped that would make things better. She didn't move, though, kept her face in her menu till the server got there. We all ordered breakfast items, and Corinne ordered a side of applesauce for Olive. Lancôme and the boys ordered burgers and steaks, like our appetite was related to job function. "Is everything ok?" "No, no, it's fine, you just had to fuck with me with that one word: probably." "I'll come with you to LA if you want me there." "Of course I want you there. Do you know nothing about me? I mean—" "I'm sorry, baby, I didn't mean to fuck with you—" "It's ok, I know, I know what you meant—" "I didn't mean anything—" "It's ok, we don't have to talk about it anymore. Consider the issue closed. If you want to come with me you will, if you don't, well.." "I'm coming with you to LA, you'll make your movie, we'll be together, it'll be like last time. Accept that, please." "But I don't want to fuck with your writing!" "You're really not. As long as I have a laptop and a little time to myself, I'll be writing. Plus I'm writing all this down in my book, so you're really helping me with my writing. Baby, let things just be ok." "But what about when Olive grows up?" she says. "Will you still have the appetite for shitting on her when she's three, four? We'll have to stop thinking of her as a baby at some point." "Maybe we'll just explain to her, look, Olive, your family is different. This is how we play. We shit on each other. Not all families play like this but this is how our family plays. So..here..this is ok. That type of thing." "Will that work?" "Why not? When she's four or five we'll explain it to her. There are different types of families." "Do you mind being her father?" "It's the most natural thing..when I first met you I didn't know what that would be like, but it's the most natural thing, I love it, I promise you, I do. I love that kid like I'd love my own kids. She is my kid! She is." "Oh. Ok, baby. You're convincing me. You convinced me! Forget about the 'probably.' What was said is what was said. It's done. Just know how badly I want us to be together. And. See if you can find it. In your heart. To be with me." "I'm with you, I am." "Then what's your hesitation?" "If I have any, it's probably that..I don't know if we can communicate the right way..because you're nine." "There is no right way. There is no right way. We communicate." "I know we do." "But you're holding out for something better. You think that there's some ideal relationship out there with the right-aged woman, where you can have sophisticated conversations and everything will be perfect—" "I don't know if that's what I'm waiting for. I don't want to be reserved with you, I don't want to hold back. Maybe this is perfect—" "It is." "Maybe it is." "You've got to stop thinking in terms of some nebulous future and look at what's actually going on. You're actually getting pussy from me. You actually like to spend time with me. We actually have some of the same interests in terms of drugs and shitplay which we can actually make work in our unique family as you called it, our special family. So be here with that, please. We're both alive and we like each other (I think) and we have the ability to be together so why does there have to be any more searching? What else are you looking for? Another pussy? Another mind? I let you have other pussy when you want it and the same thing goes for other minds: call your friends! I'm not jealous of that! Have your intellectual conversations that you think I wouldn't get—fuck it! But we have a partnership. Do you want me to have one of your babies? I bet you'd love to poop all over that." "I would. I'd love to poop on one of our babies together." "We can do that." I looked to Corinne to see what she thought of this last, but she was happily playing with Olive. "You're making me have to poop right now just talking about it." "Me too." "Do you have any of that cocaine?" "Yes." "Break me off a little bit, just put it in this napkin, I'm gonna go to the bathroom before our food gets here." "I think it's about up." "This'll be quick, break me off a piece." And right when the waiter's arriving, I'm tapping out a pile of coke for st★rchild, and she's getting up from the booth with her hot ass and I'm watching her go toward the bathroom and the waiter lays out our food. Next thing you know st★rchild is on the phone with Lindsay Lohan and it's all a big rush to get out the door. We all left unfinished food. Then we're cabbing it back to my place, rushing, trying to beat Lindsay there. Wouldn't want to keep Lindsay waiting! St★rchild is saying "We have to get there." We have to get there before Lindsay Lohan. She deigned to meet with us, only because st★rchild, but still we have to rush because Lindsay's a bigger star. We get to the apartment fire and in fact it's a full two hours after the settled-upon meeting time that Lindsay finally shows up. "Lindsay!" "St★rchild!" "What do you want to drink, we have a pretty decent bar." "Uh. If you have a vodka tonic?" "Lancôme. Make her a vodka tonic. We also have coke if you're interested." "Yeah. I'll do some lines with you." St★rchild introduces me to Lindsay. "Hi." "Hi. I'll get the coke." I leave the two of them on the other side of the living room and go to my jar on the bookshelf. Lindsay's taking off her sweatshirt getting ready to do the coke. I set a bag out on the mirror and st★rchild and Lindsay are kneeling on either side of the table. I take my place beside st★rchild. I want to just scream: "Look, there's two of you, that means st★rchild can't be a representation of Lindsay Lohan because here they both are, in a room, as separate people!" I want to scream that. But no one would be listening if I did. Lindsay is chopping off lines like a pro. She has three out and we already have straws for everyone so everyone grabs a straw and goes to it. Lindsay sees Corinne holding Olive and says, "Wouldn't that be weird if we gave your baby some coke?" I look skeptically at st★rchild. "Yeah, that would be..weird. Do you like it?" Lindsay sniffs. "It's great. Did you get this here?" "Yeah, I know a guy." "I know a guy too but this is better!" "I'll introduce you. Or get it off me. We have some extra." "That's cool, so let's talk about this book." Corinne sits with the baby in the living room. Lancôme is in the kitchen. "Yeah, basically—do you want to hear about the book?" "Ok." "The book features a Lindsay Lohan character as well as a st★rchild character who it's said would be Lindsay Lohan if the book was real. I think that's the problem you're having a problem with, that st★rchild would be Lindsay Lohan if st★rchild were real. But maybe also with this secondary character who is Lindsay Lohan, who comes to my apartment to discuss her problems with the book—" "Let's not assume," she says, "that I have any problems with the book. Ok? Tell me more about it." "Well. The only reason I had to mention you at all was that you're the perfect example of a child star, for movies. Someone who grew up in the Mickey Mouse Club—of whatever. And started making movies when you were a child..who's also grown into an adult movie star. There's just no better example of that for this generation. And especially as someone who's been corrupted by Hollywood and the pressures of being a star, there is no better example. You even point out that everyone goes through a crazy phase, it's just that yours was public. I myself have had worse drug problems and psych ward stints than you or Britney Spears. The difference is no one was looking at me, no one cared that I was falling apart. With a you or with a Britney Spears, the slightest rumble is detected by the press, photographed, iconified, and burned into permanence. This book deals with a child star who has lost all supervision and thus her ideas about what is normal are..shifted. It's just like you said a minute ago, wouldn't it be funny if we gave your baby crack. That would be funny, in our unsupervised, unlimited, conscience-less way of living where money has made nearly everything possible and no one's paying any attention to what we manage to do in private. You might be surprised to find that st★rchild and I have done similar things, to giving a baby coke, even worse things, some might say." "Like what?" "Like shit on her. Like pierce her hymen. We punctured her hymen with a sharpened pencil, Lindsay, and we want you to be a part of our next activity." I was just making shit up. I hoped st★rchild didn't mind. "We want you to join us in a game. We're playing with—this is Corinne." "And Olive. I've read." "We're going to slice Corinne's hymen with an X-Acto knife. And we're going to do Olive's at the same time. We'd like you to be a part of this—" "You're forgetting the most important part." "We're going to eat their hymens. Yes. To share an appetizer and a breakfast of Olive's and Corinne's hymen. Would you like to be part of this?" Lindsay snorts another line. "Where would that leave us with the lawsuit?" "I don't know. Forget the lawsuit. Let us eat hymen together." "You shit on that baby?" "Of course I did." "Was it fun?" "Yes it was fun. Would you like to try it?" "No." "We can arrange—" "No. I'm not going to shit on your baby." "But aren't you glad we can have this conversation?" "Um. I guess?" "St★rchild, do you want to add anything?" "No, you're doing just fine." "So what about the lawsuit?" "What about the lawsuit?" "Aren't you going to try to convince me to drop it?" "I was going to do that, I was. Instead I've decided to invite you to the hymen-cutting ceremony and possibly a little shitplay." "But.." "This is so much more important, don't you think?" "But I'm still going to sue you." "That's fine! That's fine Lindsay! Go ahead! But give a little thought to joining us, tonight, for their hymen-cutting. Ok?" "You're weirding me out." "Take a moment. Talk to st★rchild. I'll be right over here." I go in the kitchen with Lancôme. "Make me a John Doe." "See how easy that is? Now that you're used to it. You just tell me to do something and I do it. No please, no thank you, it's just a simple transaction." "I see. Make it a double. I've got Lindsay Lohan in my house and I'm not gonna waste this moment. I'm going to prevail over this bitch. I'm going to write her into my story and there's nothing she can do about it. I'm going to incriminate her by making her eat Olive's hymen and Corinne's hymen. If I can I'm going to get her to shitplay in my house and we're going to do enough coke to..well, we're going to do a lot of coke. You want me to bring you a line, Lancôme? You want that?" "No thank you." "Why not?" "Don't you think someone should stay sober through all of this, so the police don't show up?" "That's true, if the police came in and we were high on coke shitting on a baby, they might think they needed to intervene and there might be consequences for all of us." "Exactly." "Lancôme, do you have a problem with what we're doing?" "No sir." "Do you ever think of selling pictures to TMZ?" "Honestly? Yes. I think about it every day." "I think the st★rchild can increase your pay." "Do you think so?" "Yes, it's something I think I could talk to her about. Next time I'm licking her ripe nine-year-old asshole, I'll bring that up." "Here's your drink." I take it. Drink. Lindsay Lohan is sitting on my living room floor, st★rchild across from her, and they blend together for me, and I start thinking that all this time I've been with Lindsay Lohan, that she and st★rchild are they same, and I'm waiting for them to merge together in the living room, my eyes blur and they become one, but they don't. Lindsay stays on her side of the table and st★rchild stays on her side of the table. I go over there with my John Doe. While they're talking I cut off a very long line and snort it. "Baby. Are you going to be ok?" I lie on the couch next to st★rchild. "I'm fine." St★rchild's hands are groping my chest and my stomach, right above the waistline. "Lindsay I'm glad you could some over! Help yourselves to that drink. It's a double. I just wanna get fucking stupid!" Lindsay flips back her hair, red like st★rchild's, but longer. "Well I'm all for that!" She does more coke, st★rchild does more coke, I lean down and do some more coke, and then it's all of us in a frenzy, TV on, Lancôme watching from the kitchen, Corinne having taken Olive back to their room, doing coke after coke after coke. We're all hyper-awake watching this surfing show on TV, it's just shot after shot of waves and nature scenery, surfers. We trance out on that for a while then Lindsay asks: "When are we gonna eat her hymen?" "We can do it now." "No let's wait till tonight," st★rchild says. "Are we really gonna do this?" Lindsay asks, reclining back against her chair. "Of course. Would we tease you?" "I'm gonna call my lawyer." "Why?" "Because I wanna check something with him." "Don't tell him about the—" "Shhh! Hey, it's me. With the Temple book, we don't have to sue them, do we? I mean, I did, but. No, I'm just meeting with the author—. Yes, I met with him! Well, I'm thinking we don't need to have a suit in this case. Right? Well I kind of do like him..he's down to earth. I am telling you. No. Lawsuit. Drop it. We're letting this one go. Bye. Bye. I let you off the hook." "Me?" "Yeah, we just initiate a lawsuit automatically in these cases, I don't even look at 'em until they get above a certain level. But I don't want to sue you." "You don't?" "No. People can write books using a celebrity name fictitiously, it's been done forever." "Thank you?" "No problem. Just. When you write your book, make me seem cool." "I think if you participate in Corinne and Olive's hymen-cutting, you'll seem cool. Like a celebrity who truly has no respect for laws and who'll just do whatever the fuck she wants. Is that the kind of image you're looking for?" "Yeah but describe my body, make it sexy." "Ok." Lindsay stretched her thin frame across my chair and her breasts popped among the landscape. Her sultry skin demanded a touch and I reached over and touched her, letting the coke guide me. St★rchild was spacing out on the couch and I touched Lindsay more freely, as if it was ok to be touching the girl who wasn't my girlfriend. She responded to my touch, and for the first time I thought about what it would be like to fuck this girl. Wanted to see if she and st★rchild would be up for a threesome, but was worried that LiLo might not be into the scat shit we would normally include. I didn't want to startle her by reaching around and digging up her butt for a shit sample. Putting it in the sample cup for safekeeping. That tiny fork that seems to have been designed for eating the most luxurious delicacy. So I pulled my hands back from Lindsay and focused on the coke, cutting lines, snorting lines, owning my house, owning the two bitches that sat next to me, and Lancôme the chaperone, owning her too in a different way. Lancôme would do anything we said. If we said, "Lancôme, we're going to cut this baby's right arm off" Lancôme would say, "I'll watch over you and keep you safe while you do it." And I wanted to cut that baby, cut that baby more than we had already done and I hoped my lust would settle for the hymen-cutting and that would be that. I felt like a scammer touching Lindsay's body like that, so I stopped. I had never really wanted to have sexual relations with her, not as a primary form of relationship. I got up and went to Lancôme. "We need a shower curtain in my bedroom, I need you to get us an X-Acto knife and some disinfecting wipes, like from a first aid kit." "That's it?" "Yeah." "Ok, I'll be right back." I look over and Lindsay and st★rchild are both on the couch, touching each other. Lindsay strips down to her panties, and strips st★rchild down to hers as well. "Check on Corinne before you go." "Ok." I go to sit in one of my living room chairs, facing the couch. I watch for a while and then say, "why don't you lick each other's assholes?" Lindsay strips st★rchild's panties off, turns her over, lifts her butt in the air, and proceeds to lick st★rchild's asshole. My dick gets hard. "St★rchild, hold your shit in." "I'm holding." "Do you have to shit?" Lindsay asks. St★rchild nods vigorously. Lindsay sticks her finger inside st★rchild's asshole, not very deep. "Do you like shitplay?" I ask. "Of course," Lindsay says, and I knew it, I knew it, I knew she must be cool. She was already on it before we introduced it to her. "Let's go to the bathroom," I say. "No, I want to shit on your couch." "Lindsay, would you convince her that it would be better if the three of went into the bathroom and she could have her shit there?" "No," Lindsay says. "I agree. She should shit right here on your couch." "Can't I put a shower curtain down? At least?" "I'm about to let go!" "Do it. Shit all over my hand, st★rchild." "Wait. Let me get my camera." "No pictures," Lindsay says. "Strict rule. Don't take any pictures of me." "Ok. No problem." "Are you ready baby?" "Yeah, let it go." "Oh, my couch!" "Here goes..wait." St★rchild looks at me. "I'm just kidding, I wouldn't shit on your couch." Then she lets out the hugest shit, and it's bubbling and crumbling out her ass and Lindsay has her hands all in it. It bubbles onto the couch and all over Lindsay's knees. Lindsay stands, and rubs her hands on st★rchild's back. She's covered in shit. "Are you all done?" "Yes..wait." Another gurgle of shit comes out of her ass. St★rchild stands. "Be careful on your way to the bathroom." "Aww," st★rchild says. "Don't talk to me that way, I just shat for you." And she rubs her hands along her sides and then touched my face, both of my cheeks imprinted with her shit. "Now why did you go and do that?" "So you'll have to shower with us." I get up. Then it's me and Lindsay and st★rchild in the shower. "Sorry about your panties. If you want I can send Lancôme to get you another pair." "No, that's ok. I have someone I can send. How long have you been into shitplay?" "Since we met." "Yeah, I guess..four months?" "Four months together, I think each of us had had our forays into it before, but when we got together it really got kicked into action." "How long have you been into it?" "About a year. Some friends of mine introduced me to it, and I've been into it ever since." "That's cool." "No one knows about it, though, so don't tell anyone." "Don't worry, we keep secrets." "Yeah, you don't have to worry about him. He's cool." "Ok, good." "Plus, we want you to keep our secret, about what we're going to do with Corinne and little Olive." "Whatever you ask, I will keep a secret." "Lindsay, you want to just put on some of my clothes." "Sure, I'll get..comfortable." Lindsay comes out in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. St★rchild is all cleaned up. I've thoroughly wiped down and cleaned the couch, and we're all just watching TV and snorting coke, waiting for Lancôme. "So you're going to cut their hymens?" "Right." "Why?" "As a form of intimacy, since we're going to eat them." "Will you have enough for three?" "We'll cut Corinne's into three, for sure. With Olive's, it may be like we just get the tiniest flap of skin off there, so it's harder to say. We'll try." "You're not recording anything?" "What do you mean?" "You don't have hidden cameras in your house or anything?" "No, definitely not." "Ok. 'Cause. That would be bad." "There are no hidden cameras," st★rchild confirms. "How did you find this girl Corinne?" "Hired her in LA. Craigslist. Lancôme found her." "What did you say, like, 'Looking for a girl to cut off her hymen?'" "No, we were looking for a nanny. That's what I hired her as. We thought of the hymen thing later." "And how did you spring it on her?" "I don't remember. I think we just suggested it, and let her have some time to think it over, you know, get comfortable with the idea." "And she got comfortable with it?" "Yeah, she's accepted it now, like her mother told her that in a month she would have to go off to school instead of stay home, she's accepted it as her fate, as the fate of her technical virginity, and accepted that we're going to be the people to bring it to her." "She did cry." "She cried, but it was more of an acceptance cry, I think, like, ok, this makes as much sense as anything, so let's do it." "You have some fascinating hobbies, st★rchild. You too. You two are tripping me out with this shit. Makes me want to get some slaves of my own." "You already have them." "I guess." Just then Lancôme came through the door. "Come check what I have because I'm not sure what kind of knife you wanted. I got several." I'm up in the kitchen. "Let me see." "Here, see?" "Oh, yeah, this is the one. Right here. Classic X-Acto. Someone was stabbed in my grade school with one of these. Perfect, Corinne." "Do you want me to take the rest back?" "No, keep 'em. We'll find some use for those." "He wants to cut off my clitoris," st★rchild says. "No I don't." "Admit it, it's true." "Thank you Lancôme. "This is what I could find for disinfecting wipes." "Let me see. Brilliant. 'Kills 99.9% of bacteria on hard surfaces. Bleach free.' Cool. You're a champ, thank you for this stuff. Do I need to get you, or..?" "It's on st★rchild's card. And don't thank me." "I forgot, I got so excited." "Are we ready to do this or what?" "Let's go." "Alright. Lancôme, get Corinne to come into my bedroom." "Do we need a shower curtain?" "Not unless anyone is planning on shitting on me while I cut out their hymen!" "Just asking." "No shower curtain. Just a towel to lay down to catch any blood, should be enough." "I'll get that and move Corinne." "Good. Ladies, ready to eat some hymen?" St★rchild and Lindsay are grabbing last lines of coke and making their way towards my bedroom. Corinne has Olive in her arms and is bouncing her. "Are we gonna do her first?" "Yes," I say, setting the disinfecting wipes next to the towel Lancôme has placed on my bed. Corinne lays Olive down and takes off her diaper. "St★rchild, you want to do this one and I'll do Corinne? Or, how do you want to do this." "Yeah, that sounds good. Gimme that thing." She takes the X-Acto knife from me and removes its plastic tip protector, places it on my dresser. Olive is looking up at us like, "Hi. Here I am. How are you?" and smiling and waving her arms. St★rchild kneels at the edge of the bed. She places the knife down beside the towel and uses both hands to smooth down Olive's legs. They're naturally spread. St★rchild pulls open Olive's vulva and peers at the tiny parts. "Ok, I see what we're doing. Hold her legs." Lindsay Lohan takes one of the girl's legs and I take the other. We gently hold her legs out of the way so st★rchild can see. She picks up the knife and goes into the baby's tiny hymen, goring it with the knife point. She cuts upward, severing it in two pieces. "I don't have it. I lost it. Now you see?" "It's ok, just cut each piece out and place them here. St★rchild leans in super-close to the vulva so she can see it. She cuts across and over on one of the halves of the hymen, bringing the knife up and away. "I got it!" She has it on the tip of the knife. "Put it down! Put it down!" She puts the knife down. I grab it and wipe off the tiny hymen fragment, on the towel. "Now get the other piece! You're doing well!" Of course all this time Olive was crying and Corinne was standing in the corner of my room with her arms crossed. St★rchild cut out the other hymen fragment, deftly, amazingly, she was very good. I knew I would have an easier time of it with Corinne's much larger hymen, and I was proud of st★rchild for taking the lead on Olive. Olive's screaming as st★rchild grabs one of the disinfecting wipes and taking it to Olive's bloody vagina. "Who's going to get it?" st★rchild is asking. "I only got two pieces." "We'll figure it out." "I could maybe grab a third piece if I go back in there." St★rchild is wiping the bloody vagina. "No," Lindsay says. "You two have it. You're her parents. I can wait." "Are you sure that's ok?" "Yeah, go ahead. I'm just going to grab another line of coke while you do that. Be right back." So I pinch one of the fragments in my fingers and cheers st★rchild once she has hers in hand. "To us," I say. And she says, "To us." "To our meeting and our relationship and to everything that's to come." We both put our hymen in our mouth. It's too small to chew, so you have to just roll it around in your mouth a bit and swallow. I rolled mine around in my mouth for a good while, as I didn't want to forget this moment. Then I moved it to the center of my tongue and swallowed. St★rchild swallowed too, and now it was Corinne's turn. Lindsay came back in the room. "You ready?" she says to Corinne. Corinne, big eyes, unfolds her arms and unzips her jeans and pushes off her jeans and her panties and leaves them on the floor. She steps into position, sits on the towel, then lies back. She has her legs spread and her pussy lips partially spread because of this. I take two fingers on each side and spread her open. There it is, her precious hymen, the translucent kind, half moon across the bottom of her hole. I put my finger a tiny bit of the way into her, resting on top of her hymen. I press down. It's taut. I pick up the knife. Lindsay kneels beside her and pets her on her head. St★rchild follows suit. "Corinne?" "Yeah." "Wow. Are you absolutely sure you want me to do this?" "Don't ask me that! I already prepared myself. Just cut it quick, I don't want to be in a lot of pain." "Ok. Thank you for letting me do this to you." "Stop thanking everyone and just cut it out of me!" So I did. I went in, held her steady with my left hand, and my right hand resting on her ass I made three cuts: down, across, up. There was instant blood, and I set the hymen down on the towel and went for the disinfectant wipes. I pulled one out and rubbed it all over her vagina, more than I had to, touching her clit and everything. My dick was so hard by the time we got the thing out of her that I forgot we were going to eat it and I unzipped my pants and crawled on top of her. "Ok?" I asked. Corinne nodded, turned her head to one side, and closed her eyes. I put my dick in her so slow, so gently, but it was tight, and I had to stop for a minute to let her relax. Then I got it all the way in, and she was still bleeding, and I fucked her, fucked her firm. St★rchild had gotten a pair of scissors and cut the hymen into three pieces, which she fed to Lindsay, herself, and me, while I was still on top of Corinne. This one was bigger, and you could really get the taste of it and there was plenty to gnaw on and I got an extra special kick out of gnawing on Corinne's hymen while my dick was in her vagina, pressing her, pushing her, leaning on her. Then I held her by the back of the head and I went at it, fucking her fast and not stopping and finally cumming inside her, then letting her head go and brushing back her hair and looking at her as she opened her eyes, no longer a virgin. In the future everyone has sex with vibrators, so it doesn't matter. In the future Lindsay Lohan goes back on Adderall and it isn't good for a single person. In the future my imagination grows so big that it surrounds me, and I can't tell the difference between fact and fiction. Lindsay Lohan lounged around the living room chewing on and fingering her piece of Corinne's hymen. She would put it on the center of her tongue and stick her tongue out, then bring her tongue back in. St★rchild had swallowed hers already, and I had ground mine almost to dust before swallowing it. Corinne went to the bathroom to clean my cum up. Lancôme still had Olive. When Corinne came out of the bathroom Lindsay spoke to her: "You know..kid..you lost your hymen in the perfect way. In the future I expect everyone will be cutting out their hymens with X-Acto knives. Don't you guys?" "Yeah, probably." "Maybe," I say, thinking that this was something I had to put in my book, to encourage other people to do it. Teenagers re-creating the Corinne hymen scene in their basements. I vowed to write it down the next time I was at my laptop. "Lindsay, you want some more cocaine?" "I'll do a little more with you but then I have to go. Meeting some people tonight." So we do some more cocaine and then we're saying our goodbyes, and I regret it's been so short a visit with the superstar Lindsay Lohan. She's saying how "interesting" our visit was and st★rchild asks her if she might come again sometime and Lindsay says "definitely." Once the door is closed st★rchild and I are hugging. "See?" she says. "Yeah, that did it. No more lawsuit." "I mean: she's nice, isn't she?" "She's nice, yeah, I'm glad we met with her." "She wasn't too hard to talk down off the ledge." "You mean the lawsuit?" "Yeah." "No, she was fine, just get a little bit of Corinne's hymen in her, she turns completely reasonable. Corinne. You're a champ. Did you get all the blood and cum off your legs?" Corinne's on the living room floor playing with Olive. She gives me the thumbs-up sign. "Great. Lancôme, why don't you get us some braised swordfish. Yes. Get us braised swordfish. Even though I'm not sure that it exists, find us braised swordfish. St★rchild? You in?" She just rubs my chest. "I wanna fuck, on the couch next to Corinne and Olive, like it is the most normal thing, for us to be fucking right next to them. Can you get hard again?" "If you get me hard." "Braised swordfish." "Yes. Lancôme..go." So st★rchild and I fuck on the couch, right in front of Corinne and Olive, like it was the most normal thing in the world, to be fucking with our nanny and baby there. It was hard to invent new things to do to keep ourselves entertained, though, after all we had done. I could feel that st★rchild wasn't into it. "What's wrong?" "Nothing, I just—maybe if—Corinne, could you..take your top off. Or maybe your bottom. Can I see your vagina?" Corinne stood and shuffled down her sweatpants. She pushed down her panties, which had a panty liner in them to catch the blood. "Come here. Can I finger you?" So st★rchild was fingering Corinne's very fresh pussy and I was fucking st★rchild in the ass and fingering her pussy/vagina thing. But st★rchild wasn't responding. I'd thrust into her and she wouldn't even push back against me, she was almost limp. "What do you want?" "I don't know. It's falling apart." "What is falling apart? Corinne maybe you could spread your legs." "The juju is falling apart. You know what I mean." And I did. I reached over and pulled st★rchild's hand out of Corinne's pussy/vagina/vulva-type apparatus. I made a motion for her to sit down. I turned st★rchild all the way around, keeping my dick in her, and brushed her hair back. St★rchild shook her head and looked away. "You really think the juju is falling apart?" "I think once we cut out Corinne's and Olive's hymens we fucked ourselves!" "Can we not talk magical talk?" "It's not magic! It's real! Can't you feel that?" I ran my hand down st★rchild's front. "I feel it." "Maybe I'm overreacting!" "You're not. I felt it too. While I was fucking Corinne. It's just..different." "I don't think it has to do with the hymens. That is magic talk. I think we're just in that point in our relationship where everything gets boring, you know?" "I hate to say I think you're right, but I think.." "Corinne. Does it feel different to you?" "What? The family?" "Yes, the family." "Yes. It does feel different." "Shit." "Fuck, baby!" "But maybe what you two need to do is do something even crazier, to re-establish the relationship." "What's left?" "We could kill Olive!" "What??" "It's just an idea." "How did we get to this point, where I am seriously considering what you just said?" "I can't kill Olive. I love Olive." "Little Olivia, don't listen to this. This is grown-up talk." "Why don't you cut her some more?" Corinne suggests. St★rchild and I look at each other. St★rchild speaks first: "No, I don't really want to cut her any more, do you?" I shake my head. "Fuck. This is horrible. This is horrible!" I stand. I'm pacing. "Why did I tell Lancôme to get swordfish? I'm an idiot. We're just entertaining ourselves with all this crap, and you're telling me that now the movie's over?" "I don't know that it's over. It just feels like it's at least stuck. Maybe it's a problem with the projector." "You're telling me that this whole time I was just entertaining myself with your shit? But in the beginning..didn't we have something in the beginning?" "That was shit, too." "But wasn't it true? Didn't we look in each other's eyes and share a moment?" "When you cleaned me off, yes, that was true. We had a true moment of shitplay and fucking, you fucking my pregnant belly." "Maybe we should have a baby?" "Another baby, to cut the hymen out of?" "It might bring us together." "I'm not ready for another baby. I'm not even sure I'm taking the best care of this one." "Don't say that," says Corinne. "We do ok." "I wasn't trying to minimize your contribution." "No, I understand." "What if we go back there?" "Go back where?" "To where we met. Let's fuck in that spot. Bring Olive, maybe cut her there, drip the sidewalk with her blood." "You want to make a sacrifice." "I want to do something! I'm not just letting go of you because the juju got messed up after one simple hymen cutting!" "Maybe it has nothing to do with the hymen cutting. That's what I'm saying. Maybe it's just our time." "Do you want it to be our time?" "No, but you can't force things." "Just because we had one failed sex, is that all it takes to read the juju?" "We've never had a failed sex before." "So maybe we're judging ourselves too harshly. And it's not failed. It's just not hot..as hot as we have been." "That's a failed sex." "Do you wanna go?" "Back to our meeting place?" "Yeah." "Maybe. Now?" "Why not?" "O-k. Baby, it's no one's fault. Failed sex can happen." "I just don't know why one failed sex is reason to think the whole thing is over!" "Can you not yell?" "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." "I'll go with you." "To where it all started?" "Yes." "Corinne, let's go." "No, let's go ourselves." "Just the three of us?" "Yeah." I pick the baby off the floor and put her against my shoulder. "She's got a clean diaper." "Thanks, Corinne. Help yourself to the coke while we're gone." "Good luck." "Thank you," st★rchild says. Corinne is standing there in her sweatpants when we close the door. Me and st★rchild and Olive, alone, in the hallway. Alone, as we take the elevator down. Alone, on my street in SoHo, making our way to the alley where we met. Gray sky. Walking up the street, st★rchild in sunglasses, me still holding Olive, and st★rchild puts her arm around my waist and it means the world to me that she'll still be tender with me even though the juju may have become fucked. It's three blocks up, that intersection where we met, where st★rchild crossed the street with her posse and fell and hit the sidewalk and shit herself. Maybe we'd have another accident, and I could clean her up like old times—that could do it, right? Approaching that alley, and this is part of the street where they have those feedback cams. "STAY IN YOUR LANE. YOUR DESTINATION IS TO THE RIGHT." One of the cameras was talking to us, remembering us from before and knowing we were headed for that alley. We stop at the spot where we met, where I pushed st★rchild to the ground. She and I look at each other. St★rchild lets me lead the way. We turn into the alley. The thing is lit up like a stadium. There's the hose. There's that standpipe coming up through the ground. There's the drain. "PUT THE BABY ON THE GROUND!" I walk to the center of the alleyway and look up at the monitor. I place Olive on the ground and she protests a little. The alley is wet. St★rchild starts undressing. "What are you doing?" "See if you can fuck me here, see if the juju returns." Two people crossing the alleyway stop to look. "You're gonna draw a crowd." St★rchild is pulling off her last sock. Walking to me over wet ground. "I think Olive is shitting." "Take off her diaper." I bend down to the sweet little girl and untape her diaper on one side. "She shat." "Grab that hose, clean her off. Maybe that's what we have to do..clean her off in the place we met!" "Ok." I'm un-looping the hose from the wall, turning the water on. "Spread her legs." "Look, she still has blood on her." "Spread her." St★rchild does. "Get me wet, it's ok." St★rchild is squatting next to her baby and the profile I get on her vulva is beautiful, a little "m" of pussy lips. She looks like a child. And she is. I should remember that. Poor kid, with a baby at this age. I spray them. The water trickles off st★rchild's head. Water is dripping onto Olive's body. "Maybe we should eat it!" "Maybe!" I put the hose down and it's spraying on the wall. I kneel over Olive and st★rchild's and my hands are going for the diaper, each grabbing some of Olive's very loose shit. We're going at it with both hands, feeding ourselves, feeding each other, and getting the last of her shit in our mouths. I can see there are about four people standing in the alley entrance now, watching us. "Give me a shit kiss," st★rchild says, shit flowing out of her mouth. I grab her face with both hands and kiss her, our tongues rolling the shit around each other's mouth, pushing it into each other, swallowing little bits of it, getting it between our teeth and under our tongues and in the pockets of our cheeks. Our lips barely part, and the voice in the sky says: "KEEP KISSING!" so we do, we kiss the shit out of each other, and when Olive cries, naked st★rchild picks her up, naked baby and naked mother, and I'm standing behind them and someone in the crowd says, "That's st★rchild!!" I put one hand on st★rchild's ass and we go out to meet them. And I'm not sure what the situation is with us, if by the time we get back to my apartment the juju will have returned, but I know for this moment she is mine, and with her crowd coming to meet her, she truly is a star.