Works

Hello visitors.

This site is really random. Part rant, part rave, and part stories.

Blog experts say I should keep a tight focus on this blog. And maybe things will tighten up as time goes on.

But fuck it…right now, I feel scattered. And thus, this blog will be scattered.

Below is the first section of a 16-pg story I wrote not too long ago. If you’d like to read the entire story, just sign up for the email or RSS updates. The .pdf story will be attached to the end of the feed.

So, without further ado…
So, without further ado…

Hanging

Almost nine months ago, I found Oswald dangling from the shower curtain rod.

I had eaten a large slice of pizza for dinner that day, and spent hours afterwards thirsty, guzzling gallons of coke. Later, when I went to sleep, my stomach made squishy sounds like a waterbed.

Oswald wanted to fuck.
“I feel disgusting,” I said. “Like I’m gonna hurl.”

My eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the dark, so his voice seemed to come from a black hole to my left. He begged, “Just a quickie.”

So, I let him fuck me, all the while reminding him to keep his weight on his elbows. Gloop, gloop, my stomach belched along with his thrusts.

As his cock slid out of me, I felt an ooey-gooeyness running out of me, trickling down the crack of my ass.

“Did you cum in me? Jesus, I told you not to do that!” I grabbed a fistful of the bedsheet and wiped myself. “Why do you always pull this shit? Now my pussy will smell like crabcakes tomorrow!”

I moved to the very edge of the bed, so he wouldn’t even think about trying to cuddle.

A few hours later, I woke up, bladder ready to pop. I sleepily thump-thumped out into the bathroom. My hand fumbled for the light switch.

I was already on the toilet, when I accidentally elbowed his thigh.

“FUCK!”

I jumped up mid-piss, the dark yellow urine streaming down my legs, soaking into my pajama pants, soaking into the the dusty, hair-matted green bathmat.

———————————

Oswald was swinging off the back end of the rusted rod, his knees bent at 45-dgree angles so that his toes could get off the ground. At any moment, he could have put his feet down and stood up. But he was deeply committed to hanging.

He had ripped down the back end of the mildew-stained shower curtain, breaking some of the hooks. Man, did he hate those hooks. I salvaged them from a trash can in Brooklyn a few months ago. They were shaped like clay magnolias.

“You know, it’s $3 to get new metal hooks at Target,” he had told me.

“I like them,” I shot back. (Actually, I hated them, too, but I knew they would drive him crazy, and that was enough for me).

His noose, which was an electrical extension cord, was decorated on top with a magnolia hook. Around the necktie he used to tie his wrists to his back, there were two more magolia hooks.

But who cares about the magnolia hooks, right? Everyone always wants to know what the face looked like. Some people asked me, “did you take a picture?” as if documenting personal trauma was like coming across Big Foot.

No, I didn’t take a picture. No need. I remember the plastic bag around his face, tied tightly around his neck, over the electric chord. Oh yea, he was really committed to excellence in dying. His head was tiled slightly to the side. The thin, beige plastic had an upside “thank you” over where his face should be, but I could still make out the outlines of his face. His nose. His mouth. I even saw the bottom of his hair, peeking out in soft waves from the bag. And I saw the purple marks, the spots of pooled blood under the skin, all around his choked neck.

I think I screamed for a very, very long time. But maybe it wasn’t even me. The next day, a couple of neighbors complained to the landlady that apartment #4b’s cat had been screaming all night.

But there I was, kneeling on a piss-soaked bath mat, clutching onto a still warm thigh, my voice box vibrating, my eyes streaming tears, my pussy smelling like crabcakes.

———————————

I don’t know why he killed himself. But everyone else seemed to know exactly why.

“Well obviously, he was a sick, sick man,” my mother told me.

“How can anyone do this to his young fiancee? And what about his poor son?”

“Sick? Oh no, he was a selfish balogney sandwhich,” a friend told me. “Suicide is the most selfish thing a person can do.

Isn’t his mother old and dying? How could he this to her? To you? To his son?”

“Maybe he was depressed?” another person suggested. “Some depressed people don’t act depressed at all.”

But most often, people squinted their eyes at me, and carefully asked: “did you guys have an argument before he killed himself?”

And when I didn’t answer right away, they patted my hand and said, “You’re such a pretty girl, I’m sure any man would be terrified of losing you.”

Every morning, I stare at the mirror in my new boyfriend’s apartment, and remember the last message Oswald ever wrote me.
He had torn a piece of notebook paper out, and with a big, black felt pen, he wrote: You did this to me.

And he pinned it on his balls.

Yes, with a magnolia hook.

———————————

My new boyfriend’s name is Crawford. On our fist date, I told him I wouldn’t sleep with him for 20 dates, an idea I stole from “The 40 Year old Virgin” movie.

We made it to date #3 before I pretended to be too drunk and too horny. Honestly, I was tired of the artificial suspense.

Last night, I spread eagle-tied Crawford to the bed, stuffed my panties in his mouth, then sucked and stroked his cock for an hour. His pre-cum wept in viscous droplets from the tip, and collected on his lower tummy. I pretended to enjoy lapping it up, even though it tasted like an unripe banana.

After he was untied and snoring away next to me, I layed on my side, and grabbed a fistful of the flat sheet to wipe the cum oozing out between my legs, down the crack of my ass. And then, after kicking the sheet to the floor, I went to sleep.

———————————

My arms are tied above me with neckties. My ankles, tied with electric chords.

From inside my pregnant belly, the tip of a knife thrusts out my navel. Like a shark fin, it swims in a red circle, cutting me open. My flesh sputters and oozes and groans like a huge rotting grape, squished.

When the amputated belly falls off, he sits up.

“I wish,” he says, “I never met you.”

From behind his back, he produces a plastic bag.

He puts it over his head, and precisely ties it around his neck with his umbilical chord. His baby arms are like Popeye.
The plastic around his mouth is going in and out in hyper-breaths, crunching like dried autumn leaves under boots.
And then his limp body slumps over to the side.

———————————

I wake up with my hand clasped over my twisted, mute mouth. I am trying to scream.

In the corner of my eye, I see Crawford walk into the room, buttoning up his shirt. “Oh, baby, you’re awake?” His hair is damp, his skin is glowing like a piglet bathed in cream.

Breathe, breathe.

I nod to answer his question, and hesitantly loosen my hand.

“Morning breath?” he smiles when he glances up.

Yea, that’s it. I concentrate on the windows behind him; they glow like fluorescent lights, even though the morning sky is polka-dotted with raindrops.

“Oh, I already fed the cat,” he says.

“O-ok,” I manage to say.

“So. What are your plans for today?” Crawford asks while patting his pockets, trying to make sure he has all his junk with him.“Actually, don’t you have class tonight?

His voice sounds distant, as if he were on the peak of one mountain, and I was on another, and he was yodeling messages to me. Maybe even an avalanche would start, and he would watch, helplessly, as the snow beneath me gives and I disappear into white.

“Baby, are you ok? You seem down,” he says.

“No, I’m ok.” I even manage to smile for him. “Just a bad dream.”

“Aw, baby.” His warm lips press my forehead. They feel waxy and smell like vanilla beans. “Cheer up. It’s just a dream. I’m here now.”

“Ok,” I say, my smile fading.

He gets up.“Besides, you get to go to class tonight. Isn’t it the highlight of your week?”

“Yes,” I say, more into the pillow than at him.

“Good. You’ll be ok, ok sweetie?”

“Ok.” I stare at him. Why can’t he see?

He looks at me, with a satisfied expression around his eyes. In his world, he chases away bad dreams in 30 seconds. Guaranteed.

“Then I’ll see you tonight, ok sweetie?”

“Ok.”

“I love you.” His footsteps lead out of the bedroom, into the hallway, then at the front door. The knob is turned and then the front door opens with a quiet woosh.

I turn in the bed, to face the wall, relieved that only a blank canvas will see one, two tears slip to the pillow.