So Snakeboy's fucking her with this mango, this big mango cut into eigthths, the juices running everywhere, and she's lost in the fuck. He had thrown some razors to her and ordered her to shave her pussy, and she had complied, knowing the terms of the contract. It was after all only fair he had said, given the crimes she had perpetrated at his expense over the past few weeks. And in this state of exile she found herself remembering other crimes, other acts of violence, and she wept. Wept holt salty cunt tears for an innocence that was lost far too early, far too brutally.
<but was she ever innocent?>
She remembers when she was nine or ten, fucking her mother, her desperate mad screaming mother, grinding her little girl soft pussy over her mother's beautiful face, sticking her babygirl clit into mama's mouth, covering her ears with her hands, trying to stifle the pain of insanity, not wanting to hear ever again how her mama was the world's greatest saint and how she was going to create paradise on earth. How she hated the word 'trance' after that day, how she despised the stupid useless doctor who gave her mother tranqs that only kept her quiet for as long as the doctor was in the house and how she started up her awful creepy chanting again as soon as he left with his bag of dumb tricks.
She remembers when her mother was taken away by the police and she was left all alone in the dark house because no-one knew she was there and how when they found out she had to go and live with her father, and how he made her sleep in his bed and he would slip off his white underpants and be naked under the covers, and how much she hated this and would lie as far away as possible from him and how she can't remember what happened during those three weeks and how it took her twenty years to tell him to fuck off and never touch her again one night after she met some girl at a bar who's now a dominatrix who told her that her father used to fuck her all through her childhood then send her birthday cards and little presents when she was a teenager. How she vomited every morning in the shower for a week after that. How she desperately fucked her boyfriend whom she had in fact just split up with four or five times a day in order to prove to herself that her daddy hadn't fucked her <up> also.
She remembers a game of strip jack naked at her friend's house near the beach and how the parents were alcoholics with sad wrinkly faces and didn't give a shit what the kids were up to and and how she lost the game of cards because she didn't understand the rules. How she had to go into the boys' room where her friend's fourteen year old brother was sitting on the bottom bunk bed, his erect dick in his hand, pulling so rapidly she thought it was going to be ripped from his body, and he's telling her to come closer, and she's frightened and she doesn't know why, and she runs out of the room. And how she comes now so easily when she thinks of a boy, any boy, jerking off, how it's not frightening at all any more.
She remembers the first time she hit up, with her beautiful junkie punk fuckedup girlfriend, how the pink rocks dissolved on the spoon over the candle, the first wild rush, she thought she was going to die as it raced up her spine and gripped her throat and how they fucked for seventeen hours, playing the same tape over and over again, tangling their clits and lips and tits and bellies and thighs in slow luscious abandon and how somewhere in the middle of the fuck they phoned the pock-scarred dealer who had a crush on one of them she can't remember who now and how she handed over the rest of the rent money to score again except this time it wasn't as strong each time they topped up and how she cried when she finally came because it was the first orgasm she'd had in a long time.
She remembers how no hit of heroin was ever as good as the first time and how she used to lie in bed watching her lover cut herself up with a sharp blade and how deep and wide the scars were on her white white arms and how she said that that was her way of crying, tears of blood, the same deep red blood that used to go into her arms when they hit up together with the old glass fit her lover kept wrapped up in black velvet in a rusty tin. How they didn't know about AIDS or hep back then, and now her liver's fucked and she doesn't really care that she can't drink anymore because at least it saves her from fucking cretins when she's off her face.
She remembers getting really smashed late at night in some office riddled with technology in the middle of nowhere with an old American astronaut when she was a corporate geisha girl who had to do whatever it took to secure the contracts for the overpriced crap French software used to make missiles and radars and flight components and how he followed her to the toilet when she needed to have a piss and he took his old soft dick out of his pants and squeezed it in front of her and begged to look at her pussy. How he told her she had nothing to be afraid of, how his prick always remained harmless and he pulled it out of his fly again to prove it to her and how he only left alone when she told him how many men she had fucked in her lifetime ruining his fantasy of innocent young girls and how they could be helped by kindly impotent grandfathers.
She remembers getting drunk at an opening and being pissed off that the pretty codeboy she had a date with didn't show so she picked up the lobsterboy instead who had two claws at the end of his elbows instead of arms and hands and how the bartender made snide remarks when they were pashing at the bar as if freaks shouldn't be allowed to kiss beautiful non-freaks and how she took him home but she didn't want to fuck him because by them she was sobering up and she realised that she didn't really like him because he was an obvious alcoholic loser who made bad art, she was just fascinated by his exquisite claws. So she made him sit on the end of her bed in the moonlight and jerk off so she could see exactly how a lobsterboy did it. And he had to sit all hunched over so that his claws could reach down and grab hold of his cock which was just like any other boy's dick and pull it, it just wasn't possible for him to lie on his back or stand in the shower and beat off like other boys. And how she walked into the city the next morning and had breakfast with him because that's the civilised kind of one night fuck she is and how he held his cup of coffee with one claw and lit a cigarette with the other and how everyone in the cafe was looking at them and how she kissed him defiantly and allowed him to call her sweetie even though by now he really repulsed her.
She remembers the first time she read Bataille's The Story of the Eye and how she just had to masturbate three times and she didn't even get past page one, captivated by the image of Simone lifting up her dress and sitting over the saucer of milk playing pussy. And how she was sleeping with her friend that night in the city of spires and couldn't help rubbing her clit into the futon even though that was an obviously tacky thing to do and hoping that her friend wouldn't notice and being very embarrassed the next day when she figured out that there was no way that her friend could not have noticed her urgent fingerings and rapid breathing.
She remembers the time she picked up some slimy Italian outside the Pantheon in Rome in a nostalgic attempt to recreate another anonymous fuck years before in Florence, and how he took her to some beach a long way out of the city, how she thought Rome was somehow in the middle of Italy or at least a lot closer to the beach, and how he had fucked her in the car because he didn't like sand and refused to use a condom and how afterwards she was convinced he was going to murder her and dump her body in the wasteland between the beach and the city and how the fuck was so lousy it hadn't been worth getting killed for. How that was the last time a man had ever shot his load in her.
All this and more she remembers during the mango fuck. She logs out, puts on her clothes, kisses Snakeboy goodbye, and walks out of the room.