Archive for February, 2014

In Cars

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on February 27, 2014 by ofherbsandaltars

Hello, my name’s Bill (Hi Bill!), and I’m a sex addict. It sounds pretty tawdry when I say it like that, pretty commonplace, like your garden variety pervert whacking off in a gas-station bathroom, but I like to think of myself as more of a connoisseur, an aficionado. I’ve had women, and I’ve had men too, now and then, but what I really like, what really does it for me, is cars. My name’s Bill, and I like to have sex with cars. When I say that out loud, it doesn’t sound tawdry at all. When I say that out loud, a little shiver goes tingling through my stomach and thrums right down into my balls, like a V8 engine revving.

I didn’t even realize that having sex with cars was weird ‘til I was nineteen. At school, every guy had pictures of cars inside his locker, pictures of those gleaming, slutty little sportscars. Every guy collected car mags and just about drooled when a Ferrari shot past, and I always figured it was like an unspoken message – Goddamn, I’d love to fuck the hell out of that tailpipe! If you ask my shrink, it dates back to when I was six years old. I wanted some juice but I couldn’t find my mom anywhere, until I heard these noises coming in from the garage, so I went out there to find her spread across the bonnet of our old grey Ford, getting fucked up the ass by the guy nextdoor. Was quite a time before they even noticed me, and according to my shrink, that’s why I like to fuck cars so much. Childhood trauma. But I don’t think it’s a trauma at all, not when it gives you the best damned orgasms you ever had in your life.

Think about it for a minute, the sex life of the average guy in America. From what I see, he barely gets any sex at all. It comes round in these short, intense bursts, between when a new girlfriend comes along, and when she gets fat and lazy or dumps his ass, and then it’s as dry as a desert for the next six months. Gay guys, they do a little better, provided they aren’t picky, but for your average Joe, most of the sex he gets is with his own right hand – a guilty little shuffle and a quick jizz into a tissue and that’s that. There isn’t any pleasure in that. So that’s what gets me, what I don’t understand. Sure enough it’s hard to find a willing woman, and a woman with a pretty face and nice tits and a tight round ass, even harder. But everyone’s got a car, don’t they? Everyone’s got a nice, willing car just sitting in their garage, with a tight little tailpipe and a whorish parking brake, and if you’re lucky those slick, warm wipe-clean leather seats. If you’ve got a car, and you’re still having cheap little one-hand shuffles in the bathroom, I say there’s something wrong with you. You’re missing out on a whole lot, I’ll tell you that for nothing.

For a while I had a job as a used car salesman, and I was a damned diligent worker, staying after hours every single day, turning up at the crack of dawn, eventually they gave me my own key to the building since I was always the first one on site, and the last one to leave. I had my way with just about every car that passed through that place, and I know for damn sure I’m not the only one of us in this business. If you’ve got a second hand car, if you’ve ever left your car all day at a quiet little garage, I just about guarantee you someone like me’s showed your car a good time or two. Why do you think they always wash your car before they give it back? It isn’t courtesy, we don’t give a shit about courtesy. It’s just to get the semen off.

So anyway, at this job, they had all these cars and I had a tight little thing going with quite a few of them, which is the other nice thing about cars – they aren’t jealous. Cars are as open minded as they come, impossible to offend, up for anything. But my all-time favorite, my sugar-pussy lover, was this slutty red Honda that I always kept in the back of the lot, out in the sunshine. That way, by the time the boss went home and I stayed on late, those slick leather seats were warm and welcoming, and that slutty little car was just ready and waiting. She had a stick-shift, this smooth grey knob, and I’d grease it up good and slip it into my asshole, ride her until I was about ready to come. I’d keep stopping and starting until my dick ached like hell, then I’d dry-hump that slick warm leather until it was wet and slippery with my spunk, and I’d just keep grinding away on it, nourishing her leather with my seed and feeling that whorish little Honda shiver with bliss. She was one hell of a slut, that little red Honda.

For a while I had a heavy thing going with this old grey SUV, he was a big, lumbering, serious looking guy but when the lot closed up for the night and the boss went home, it turned out he could really party. He had one of those aerials, the out-dated sort, great long steel thing with a little knob on the end – they don’t make ‘em like they used to, and it’s a damned shame. Long nights after work I used to climb up on top of him, and I’d suck that aerial off until he was just about writhing underneath me, then I’d slide that smooth slick metal down the head of my cock, feel that little cold lump go deep down inside, and I’d jack off with him inside me. Every single stroke felt like I was about to explode, with that aerial down inside, and when I finally did, I’d slowly pull it out, see my seed leaking out from around it like the filling in a Krispy Kreme donut, and I’d suck every drop off, feeling how warm that metal was from all the fucking. That serious old SUV, he never failed to surprise me. On nights when my cock was too sore, I’d use his tow-bar instead, that smooth, welcoming little dome, I’d grease it up good and just ride it and ride it ‘til my knees were shaking and I couldn’t stand it any more, and then I’d finish myself off with his tailpipe. He used to love it when I came inside of him, that filthy old SUV.

Anyhow, the good times didn’t last, I’m sorry to say. Turns out a couple of the other sales guys found some evidence smeared into the seats and dripping out of the tailpipes, so they got this big old CCTV system set up, without breathing a word to me. I guess they must have seen me fucking the hell out of that little red Honda, because the next day they fired me, told me never to come back, and that was that. It’s not so bad though, really, ‘til I find a new job in the next town over there’s always the scrap yard down the hill, and no one bothers me there. Got a good thing going with this little silver Toyota now, so it’s really not so bad, all in all.

My name is Bill, and I’m a sex addict.

The Placenta of Dorian Grey

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , on February 27, 2014 by ofherbsandaltars

By the time he was 29, Dorian’s name was synonymous with decadence and corruption. Almost every night of the week, music could be heard blaring from his sprawling villa, the pool area strewn with half-naked youths – a temple of debauchery and fornication. Inside the house, on a gleaming glass table, lay a rich cornucopia of illicit wares, spread out like a buffet of intoxication. Dorian with his angel’s face and his scandalous reputation had an uncanny ability to find and collect recreational substances, and though his disciples had never even heard of some of them, they were nonetheless keen to indulge. Most of the drugs came from a mysterious dealer known only by the alias ‘Lord Henry’, and Dorian delighted in sharing every substance, revelling in each new sensation. There were chunks of crumbly black opium, whole dishes of heroin laid out like spices at the market. Shimmering rocks of Colombian cocaine sat proudly on gilt edged mirrors, and a rainbow of rich velvet pouches lay scattered across the table, each concealing a treasure trove of neat plastic capsules, filled with tiny pinches of the latest synthetic chemicals.

Frequently youths would be found dead in the morning, floating facedown in the sunlit water of Dorian’s pool, or crumpled in a corner with a mouthful of curdled vomit, but these hopeless corpses were never enough to end the party. Anyone entering Dorian’s house did so with willingness – willingness to gamble away their life in pursuit of the ultimate high, and all were well aware that the price of a single night of boundless ecstasy could be higher than any mortal could pay. But despite his life of constant excess, Dorian burned with an unquenchable flame. No one had ever known him to suffer a hangover – no one had ever seen him vomit with drunkenness, run screaming into the hills on a terrifying acid trip, or express any morning regrets. Even after days without sleep he remained ethereally beautiful, and his lust for debauchery never waned. To the drug-addled youths of Hollywood, Dorian was an icon, a deity of perpetual excess. It was said that Dorian was 29, or even into his thirties, but no one knew for sure. He didn’t look a day over eighteen, but his legendary parties had been running for the better part of a decade.

To be allowed entrance to Dorian’s house was a badge of honour in itself. Only the beautiful, the young and the debauched were allowed past the gates, for Dorian considered ugliness to be the ultimate sin. No one with imperfect features was allowed to enter his presence, and any revellers who overindulged in the tawdrier delights of life and became offputtingly fat, they would be cast out forever. Dorian sought pleasure in all its forms, and to look on the faces of the beautiful, to make love to the exquisite, this was his ultimate right, and to be chosen as Dorian’s lover was the highest honour imaginable. Within the gates of his villa was a reeling drunken world, a world of neon and ecstasy, belonging to Dorian alone, and ugliness in any form had no place inside it.

Tonight, Dorian’s chosen disciples were a thin boy with tangled purple hair, and a topless girl with gleaming ebony skin, perfect breasts and full red lips. He led them into his bedroom, sprawling out across satin sheets and plucking the waiting syringe from his nightstand, its barrel already filled with rich, amber liquid. He lay back amongst a scattering of bejewelled pillows, and the boy crawled onto the bed, tugging down Dorian’s jeans, his innocent young face dominated by eyes as wide and black as the night sky, his pupils dilating until the corruption of his pure soul could be witnessed through those gleaming, vacant orbs. The girl was dancing at the foot of the bed, running her hands over her glistening, oiled skin, and the boy closed his lips around the head of Dorian’s pierced cock. Dorian smiled an angel’s smile, slipping a belt around his left bicep and snapping it tight. The needle pierced through his flawless skin, gliding easily into a vein, and Dorian allowed the honeyed narcotic to slip into his bloodstream, sprawling out amongst the glittering pillows with a soft sigh of bliss. The empty syringe slipped from his delicate fingers, and the warm rush of the heroin enveloped him as he came into the hot wet mouth of his lover, his ice-blue eyes blissfully glazed.

 

 

Daniel was awoken by searing nausea, and he fell out of bed, his head throbbing, stumbling desperately into the bathroom. He barely made it to the toilet before he threw up a rancid cocktail of whiskey and bile, shot through with pearly trails of semen, their origins unknown. As he crumpled into a shuddering heap on the bathroom floor, he winced at the pain in his rectum, and with a groan of despair he yanked down his boxers and examined himself. His cock was now sporting a small genital wart, and his stinging asshole was slightly torn and bloody. Dorian had really outdone himself this time.

As he rinsed the rancid taste from his mouth, Daniel fearfully examined his reflection in the mirror, and was appalled to find, amongst the blonde tangle of his hair, another cluster of grey. His ice-blue eyes were bloodshot, his pale skin tinged with nauseous green, his cheekbones becoming ever more gaunt from the constant vomiting. Although he hadn’t seen Dorian in almost a decade, Daniel knew only too well that they were far from identical, these days. He looked almost twenty years older than his twin, a fact that was rubbed in his face every year on his birthday, when a rose-scented envelope would await him in the porch, and inside it he would find nothing but a photo of Dorian. Every year, a new photo, and every year, Dorian’s face remained utterly unchanged. Even when he had hacked off his hair, dyed it black and styled it into a mohican, his face remained smooth and flawless, a mirage of innocent youth, but for the evil that burned behind his ice-blue eyes.

For five years Daniel had tried to track his brother down, had buried himself in occult studies, constantly seeking the answer to this curse. He had tried rituals beneath the full moon, voodoo dolls and blood sacrifice, but nothing had made the slightest difference. Whatever obscene, debauched activities Dorian partook of, Daniel was the one to suffer the consequences – every hangover and every STD, every grey hair and wrinkle, endless mornings retching up the semen of strangers. And lately, he just seemed to be getting sicker and sicker, and he no longer had the energy to scour the Earth for his demonic twin. He stared bleakly into the mirror, watching the blood drain from his face, before he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, and retched up another torrent of semen and stomach acid.

 

 

Dorian’s biggest secret was his twin brother Daniel, his shadow self, the source of his limitless power. Though the youths of Hollywood were forever entranced by Dorian’s British accent, it was well known that he would never speak of his origins, and this fact only increased his air of mystery. Some said that he was the bastard child of British royalty, cast out for his sins, his villa paid for with the coin of the realm, but Dorian would never tell. For the whole of his childhood he had lived in Daniel’s shadow, had been nothing more than a pale, jealous caricature of his successful, popular, witty brother, and for eighteen years the resentment had festered within him. Daniel had been given a scholarship to Oxford University, and Dorian had been left behind, his pitiful A Levels granting him access only to the local university, a school for fuckups and imbeciles, and at every single lecture he was haunted by the image of his doppelganger, walking regal corridors, treading in the footsteps of the richest men in England.

Dorian’s only friends at his new university were a pair of drug-added wasters, and it was they who supplied him with the wares that would forever change the course of his life. A bar of unlabelled chocolate, shipped direct from Amsterdam, packed with a hefty dose of dried magic mushrooms and supposedly blessed by a powerful shaman. Dorian had eaten half of it while his mother was out of town, sitting alone in his living room, dully flicking channels. When the drugs kicked in, he found his gaze drifting from the TV screen, to the photo that stood above it. His mother was at the centre, Dorian on the left, Daniel on the right. Though their faces were identical, delicate features and golden hair, Daniel’s smile radiated confidence, while Dorian’s was a forced grimace, tension and fury in every line of his tight posture.

As Dorian scowled at the photograph, the drugs building in intensity, he realised to his horror that he could feel the connection between himself and his brother, no matter how far apart they might be. It was a shimmering golden umbilical chord, stretching between them, and he could feel it pulling at him, could feel Daniel draining him of vitality, taking away from him everything that should rightfully be his – his face, his family, his place in the world, leaving him nothing but a dried out husk, a pale imitation eternally in Daniel’s shadow.

In a rage, Dorian snatched the photo and broke open the frame, tearing the image into tiny fragments, but it made no difference. He stormed through the house, a rising sense of panic overwhelming him, until he found himself drawn towards the attic as though by a pulsing siren song. He climbed the steep steps, and in a trance began riffling through a dusty suitcase of his mother’s paperwork. Beneath stacks of faded photographs, showing her and his father with their long hippie hair and obscene bellbottom flares, Dorian found the certificates of his and Daniel’s birth. Alongside them lay a small plastic baggie, containing a shrivelled brown lump. His mother’s childish script labelled it a piece of her placenta, the thing that had nourished them equally in the warm embrace of her womb, a bizarre, desiccated hippie keepsake.

As Dorian held the bag in his hands, he was filled with a strange, dark compulsion. The dried chunk of ancient meat seemed to thrum with unearthly power, as though it had been awaiting him for all those long years, as though he was standing at the crossroads of his own destiny. The attic was so still and silent that he could almost hear the beating of his own heart, a single rhythm, where in the womb it had always been doubled. For the first time in his life, Dorian stood alone, his own person, a whole individual. He opened the bag, and shook the lump of shrivelled flesh into the palm of his hand.

As soon as the placenta touched his skin, Dorian knew what was required of him. He lifted his hand to his lips, and took the placenta in his mouth as though it were the holy sacrament. At first it was tough and tasteless as ancient leather, but as his saliva soaked into the dried out meat it softened, like jerky, tasting of iron-tinged blood and musky fluids. It slipped down Dorian’s throat, and he was immediately filled with a sense of boundless freedom. Although he could still feel the connection to his brother, the shimmering golden chord had withered, turned black as tar, a one-way street. No longer could Daniel leech Dorian’s power, no longer did they share their identity – Dorian had been strengthened, purified, and Daniel became nothing more than a garbage receptacle for every putrid ounce of Dorian’s darkness.

Ever since that night, Dorian had not suffered a single illness or hangover, had not aged by a day. When he was spotted on the streets of London by a modelling agency, and moved to America to begin his nights of wild partying, it was Daniel who became sick, Daniel who was forced to drop out of Oxford, while Dorian shone on like an indestructible star. Some nights, when his brain was reeling with whiskey and cocaine, he would take a razorblade and etch angry words into the flesh of his forearm, knowing that by morning, his skin would be flawless once more, and Daniel alone would bear the scars of his wrath.

 

 

When Daniel walked into the doctor’s office, he could tell that it was bad news. Dr Patel looked even more world-weary and resigned than ever before, and as Daniel sat down he let out an exasperated sigh and asked in his thick Indian accent,

“Have you been trying to make yourself sick? Are you one of these people, these ‘Bug Chasers’?

“No!” Daniel protested. “I don’t want any of these diseases, it’s just…very… complicated…”

“I do not know what more I can tell you! I have offered you counselling on a hundred occasions, and always you say no, I give you free condoms, whole bags full of condoms, and still you come back here with yet more Chlamydia! I do not know what more words I can use with you!”

Daniel ran his hands through his hair in exasperation, knowing full well that if he tried to explain that it was Dorian having unprotected sex every single night, Dorian’s germs and Dorian’s genital warts, he would be thrown into the asylum for the rest of his life. Dr Patel’s eyes drifted down to Daniel’s exposed wrist, and he demanded,

“You have been cutting yourself again too? This one, it says ‘twat’ – why? Why are you carving the word ‘twat’ into your own skin?”

“I don’t know,” Daniel muttered, yanking down his sleeve. “I don’t remember.”

The doctor let out another defeated sigh, and asked,

“Will you not accept counselling this time? It is clear to me that you are a very sick man, with all of this drinking and this sex, and I cannot keep handing you out antibiotics like they are sweeties! And for you this time, I have very bad news…”

Daniel stared at him in bleak silence, and even before Dr Patel opened his mouth, he knew that it would be the one he had been dreading for years.

 

 

When Daniel got back home, he had an entire bag full of pills, several information sheets, and the doctor’s reassurances that HIV wasn’t a death sentence anymore, that he could still live a full and active life. But Daniel knew the truth. For years he had been researching, in a constant state of apprehension, as he battled bout after bout of Chlamydia and gonorrhoea, knowing that it was only a matter of time before Dorian hooked the biggest, baddest fish of all. He knew all too well what would happen to him, that it wouldn’t be AIDs, that he wouldn’t waste away to nothing and die in a hospital bed, looking like a prisoner fresh out of Auschwitz. It would be more insidious than that – the drugs he took to save his life would sap his strength, poison his liver and kidneys, put a strain on his heart until it gave out with no warning.

But in a way, Daniel felt as though he had been waiting for this news all along. Because now, he had nothing left to lose.

It was time to find Dorian.

 

 

Beneath the eternal rays of the Californian sun, Dorian was spreadeagled on his hands and knees, a thick black cock thrusting deliciously into his backside while the purple-haired boy lay beneath him, Dorian’s cock sliding in and out of his warm wet mouth. Between waves of all encompassing pleasure, Dorian leaned down to snort a line of coke off the shaved groin of his lover, sniffing it up hard so that some of the cool white powder hit the back of his throat, numbing the membranes. He took the boy’s cock in his mouth, and let it glide all the way down his numbed throat, the three of them writhing in perfect rhythm. The ebony-skinned girl with her perfect breasts floated around the pool on an inflatable phallus, watching them as she pleasured herself with an exact rubber replica of Dorian’s cock.

 

 

It only took an hour and a half of Googling before Daniel came across the whispers of Dorian’s location. Photographs were strewn across the internet, of beautiful young men and women in obvious states of intoxication, and in the depths of one such album, he found a picture of Dorian himself, sprawled out topless across an Oriental rug, an antique silver opium pipe in his hand and a dazed, glassy smile on his flawless face. After a further ten minutes, Daniel traced these parties to the Hollywood hills, and thirty minutes after that, he had bought himself a plane ticket to LAX.

 

 

Los Angeles airport was the most obscene creation Daniel had ever borne witness to, miles of sprawling concrete and deranged pillars of neon, towering into the glittering California sky. Something about the warmth of the night air, the constant buzz of life in this vast, lurid city, told him that he had come to the right place. It seethed with manic energy and seedy corruption, an insomniac city that lured you in with its glittering lights, and swallowed the souls of all it touched. As the taxi drove him to his cheap hotel, he saw Hollywood’s zombies stumbling the midnight streets, all those who had arrived full of high hopes and sparkling dreams, all those with stars in their eyes, who now traipsed the boardwalk on five dollar heels, hookers and pornstars and vacant eyed hobos. It had to be Dorian’s city, this glittering wasteland with cocaine and poison pumping through its veins – Dorian would feed off this city like a fat black leech.

In the morning, Daniel vomited up a litre of whiskey and semen, took his pills, and wandered out onto the streets. After talking to three hobos and a hooker, he got the approximate address of Dorian’s villa, and with a little more persuasion, the number of a local dope dealer. Daniel was nervous about meeting him, as he loitered in the sweltering sunshine, the asphalt of the hotel carpark shimmering in the heat. When the car pulled up he climbed nervously into its air-conditioned interior, but none of his pre-rehearsed lies were necessary. The guy flicked casually through Daniel’s five hundred dollars, and passed him a battered blue rucksack – the gun was inside, fully loaded.

Daniel clambered back out into the sweltering heat, and let himself into the hotel, shivers of nausea in the pit of his stomach.

 

 

As the sun set over the Hollywood hills, Dorian was sprawled out on a sun lounger, watching the flaming pink sky fade into twilight. Five minutes ago he had inserted two highly potent ecstasy pills into his rectum, before inviting his chosen disciple to fuck him all the way to euphoria. He watched lazily as his partner’s muscles rippled beneath ebony skin, each thrust of his thick cock grinding the drugs into the delicate membranes of Dorian’s colon, until perpetual waves of electric energy were flowing through him, the sunset sky beginning to shimmer and sparkle.

Once his lover’s semen was warmly dissolving the crushed remnants of Dorian’s drugs, he stumbled into the house, his vision vibrating with chemical surges of pleasure, his cock throbbing with lust. In the spacious living room he found the purple haired boy awaiting him on his knees, offering up a loaded syringe. Dorian sprawled out across a red velvet couch, sliding the needle into his vein as the boy wrapped his welcoming lips around Dorian’s cock. Throughout the house, revellers were awakening, snorting their first lines of coke, wiping off the smudged traces of last night’s makeup and soaking their semen-stained underwear in the warm water of the pool. At the gates of the villa, fresh new faces were eagerly waiting, ready to enter the temple of Sodom, to lay their lives at the feet of the sainted Dorian.

 

 

Daniel waited until 1am, when he hoped that the party would be in full swing, before he got a taxi to Dorian’s villa. The driver knew immediately where to go, and after several miles of winding roads and starlit darkness, he pulled up outside a pair of vast, golden gates, a muscular bouncer standing guard. Daniel paid the driver, and climbed out of the cab, the warm night air throbbing with pounding dance music and raucous laughter. The cold weight of the gun was tucked into his belt, hidden beneath a leather jacket that was making him sweat. As he approached the bouncer, the guy watched him with a curious frown, commenting,

“You’ve got eyes just like Dorian. You related or something?”

“I’m his cousin,” Daniel replied, trying to sound calmer than he felt. “I’ve come all the way from London – I’ve got a present for him.”

“Hang on,” the bouncer said, pulling a phone out of his pocket. “Let me check with the boss…”

“Don’t do that!” Daniel blurted out. “I want to surprise him – you’ll ruin it!”

The bouncer ignored him completely, holding the phone to his ear, but after several seconds he hung up with a resigned sigh, stating,

“Dorian’s busy. Since you’re family, I’ll let you in.”

He yanked the bolt out of the gates, and swung them wide.

Daniel passed a poolside, heaving with drunken children, the waters of the guitar-shaped pool lit from beneath, phasing slowly through rainbow hues. Dorian was nowhere to be seen, so he continued into the vast, sprawling house. Three couples were having noisy sex around a table strewn with drugs, a young girl sprawled out on her back on the floor, staring vaguely up at the ceiling with a blissful smile. Daniel asked her if she’d seen Dorian, and she pointed into the house, mumbling,

“Second door on the right…”

Daniel thanked her, and continued on his way. Outside Dorian’s door he took a deep, shaky breath, and shoved it open. A vast bed stood against the wall, covered in glittering cushions, and at its heart Dorian was expansively sprawled, a girl with tangled blonde hair sucking his dick. Dorian’s eyes locked with Daniel’s, and for a split second he looked shocked, but he quickly controlled it, tangling his fingers into the girl’s hair and forcing her into a faster rhythm. Dorian stared fixedly at Daniel, his ice-blue eyes narrowed with bliss, a sly smile on his lips, until he let out a shuddering moan of pleasure, and the girl sat up, laughing. Daniel loitered awkwardly in the doorway, but Dorian stated,

“My brother is here to bore me – leave us alone.”

The girl nodded, and slithered off the bed, casting Daniel a curious glance as she hurried out of the door. Daniel closed it behind her, slid the bolt across.

“You look terrible,” Dorian commented, picking up a black cigarette from his nightstand and lighting it. “What do you want?”

“You know what I want!” Daniel snapped, scowling at Dorian’s lithe, nude form, his flawless, unscarred skin. “I’ve put up with your crap for ten years and I won’t do it anymore – take this fucking spell off me!”

“Can’t be done,” Dorian replied carelessly, exhaling a plume of opium-tinged smoke as he lay sprawled out amongst the pillows, his cock still halfway hard. “And even if I could do it, why on Earth would I bother?”

Daniel snatched the gun out of his belt, flicking off the safety and aiming it at Dorian’s heart, but Dorian just laughed.

“Take the spell off,” Daniel repeated, “Or you die right here. You’ve given me HIV, you fucking cunt, I’ve got nothing left to lose!”

“Pity,” Dorian sighed. “I always did hate condoms…”

“Take the fucking spell off!” Daniel repeated desperately, the gun shaking in his hand. “Right now!”

Dorian burst out laughing, and Daniel’s fingers tightened convulsively around the gun. It jerked in his hand, the gunshot so loud it hurt his ears, and the centre of Dorian’s flawless chest erupted into a gaping, gory hole.

 

 

Dorian felt the bullet tear through his chest, a white-hot agony so intense it blinded him, but as quickly as it arrived, it was gone. Daniel was swaying at the foot of the bed, the gun slipping from his fingers before he crumpled to the ground, blood saturating his shirt. Dorian ran his hands over his smooth bare chest, but there was nothing there, and he crawled out of bed in curiosity, crouching down next to his brother. Blood was spreading across the carpet in a dark, sticky pool, Daniel’s haggard face utterly lifeless. Dorian smiled an angel’s smile, and left the corpse where it was, wandering towards the door.

The mirror caught his eye, and he paused a moment to marvel at the youthful perfection of his own face, so very different now from that of his twin. He smiled at his reflection, until he noticed the cluster of grey hairs, and he gasped in horror, leaning closer to the mirror. As he watched, lines began to creep into his skin, beneath his eyes, across his forehead, around his mouth, his cheeks sagging as bloodshot veins marred the beauty of his eyes. Within seconds he was barely recognisable, had aged by thirty years. Someone was pounding on the door, shouting his name, a panicked crowd drawn by the gunshot, and before he could reply the door burst open, and a cluster of youths stumbled in, dropping to their knees beside the body.

“He’s dead!” a girl wailed. “Dorian is dead!”

“You’ve killed him!” the purple haired boy howled, hurling himself at Dorian. “Why did you kill him?”

Dorian stared in horror as one of girls produced a phone, started calling the police, and he protested,

“But I’m Dorian! That’s just my stupid brother, he doesn’t matter!”

The purple haired boy was hitting him impotently as tears shimmered in his dilated eyes, but Dorian shoved him roughly out of the way, dropping to his knees beside Daniel’s body, and a wave of horror flooded over him. He ran his hands in fear over the wrinkled wreckage of his own face, the alien sensations of exhaustion and nausea overwhelming him. The corpse on the floor had the face of an angel, flawless skin and clear blue eyes, not a day over eighteen years old.

The Maggot Man

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on February 26, 2014 by ofherbsandaltars

Human beings liked to weave a lot of bullshit around the act of procreation, but Andrew saw straight through. A child’s purpose was to replace his parents, and when he reached adulthood, his parents were rendered superfluous, their continued existence unnecessary. Insects understood this, the male praying mantis who would ejaculate into a female, and then on creating the next generation, give up the only thing he had left – the flesh of his own body, to nourish his partner, then his young. There were spiders who would rip off their own phallus after ejaculation, leaving their oozing member lodged inside the female’s vaginal passage, to ensure the success of their own DNA. Such was the sacrifice of the males of their species, the beautiful simplicity of their purpose in life – to create another, then to die with dignity. But Andrew’s father had made no such sacrifice.

Andrew had grown up thinking it was normal to be groped in the night, that every child grew up with the smell of their father’s semen drying on their pillowcase. At the point when he began to realise how abnormal it was, when he spoke to his father with all the serious disapproval his twelve year old self could muster, his father had laughed in his face, called him childish and silly, unable to cope with adult games and harmless fun, had made him feel that speaking about it would only make him look like a fool. So Andrew said nothing more on the subject, not to anyone, not even after the divorce, when he would be dragged out to glittering, luxurious restaurants, to watch his father and a blonde, brassy girlfriend pawing at each other, until they got drunk on champagne and his father would start mocking the size of Andrew’s penis, the girlfriend giggling in disbelief, but never intervening.

By the time Andrew was fifteen, he had entirely shed the uncomfortable tangles of unconditional love. No longer did he love his father because that was the thing to do – he realised to the depths of his soul that the man was a maggot, a worthless, soul-sucking blight on the Earth, but when he vented his fury to his mother, declared that he would never again set foot in his father’s house, she stopped him with the darkest of promises. She was a waitress, uneducated, unqualified, eternally struggling to make ends meet, but Andrew’s father was well on his way to becoming a millionaire. And some day, all that money, that vast sprawling house, it would belong to Andrew alone. If he spat in his father’s face now, all his suffering would be for nothing. There could be no better revenge than to inherit every penny of that wealth, to blow it all on ludicrous tat, to burn it on a bonfire, to live a life of wealth and power and to dance on his father’s grave in thousand dollar boots.

Years went by, and Andrew tolerated his father’s bullying, fixed a wide sunny smile on his face while inside him his organs were blackening with hatred, and every moment of every day, he just waited for him to die. When the cancer scare happened, Andrew fizzed with anticipation, but his father recovered, plodded doggedly on. When Andrew was 28 and lost his job, the debt collectors came calling, hounding him over the student loan that he had never quite managed to pay. His mother scraped up what little she had left, but it wasn’t nearly enough. Finally Andrew went to his father, knowing that what he asked for was a mere drop in the endless ocean of his father’s wealth, but his father just sneered and slammed the door in his face. Andrew was a man now, he could pay his own debts – mollycoddling would only turn him into a queer, if he wasn’t one already.

Andrew’s mother sold her engagement ring, to keep the debt collectors at bay, but he knew they would be back in another six months, slavering like hungry dogs, taking her car and her TV away, and it still wouldn’t be enough. Every night when Andrew lay in bed, he felt the waves of fury wash over him as he pictured that maggot of a man, that plague on the earth who took everything he could from everyone he touched, who blackened and corrupted, and consumed away their souls, who left nothing behind him but clean picked bones and endless devastation. He could live on like that for another thirty years, bloated and content with a tan and a cigar, until Andrew and his mother were shivering in a tenement block, crippled by debt, their lives sucked down the drain while he holidayed in Maldives and crushed foxes beneath the wheels of his BMW. Children were born to replace their parents, parents became obsolete, lingered solely to nourish their young. Andrew’s father had no worth as a living being – Andrew’s father had to die.

It only took a month of hunting before Andrew met a crew of crime-scene cleaners who were down on their luck, and for the promise of a chunk of his coming wealth, they promised to take care of every last detail. Andrew’s father would disappear, a paper trail laid out that put him on an expensive yacht, a yacht that would be found drifting in the ocean, with a gun and suicide note. But the death itself was too precious to give away – Andrew wanted the death for himself.

Getting hold of the gun and the silencer, that took another three weeks, and by then, Andrew was ready. He packed the gun into his battered blue rucksack, added a bottle of Jack, a change of clothes, and a glistening meat cleaver. His mother was out at work, so he clipped a lead onto Suzie’s collar, led the scruffy little sheepdog out and loaded her into the car. It only took 45 minutes to reach his father’s house, and when he knocked on the door, Andrew pasted his sunny smile in place, all the wider for knowing what he was about to do. His father was reluctant to let him in with the dog, but Andrew told him he had some good news to share, that he would only come in for a minute. His father turned, walked into the house. Andrew closed the door behind him, dug the gun out of his bag.

As soon as they reached the kitchen, he waited for his father to turn to face him, and then he opened fire. Two bullets tore open his father’s stomach, and Andrew watched him crumple to the ground, wheezing and moaning, blood spilling onto the tiles, the reek of his ruptured colon filling the kitchen. From his rucksack Andrew produced the meat cleaver, crouching down next to his dying father. He had expected to say some final words, to unleash every ounce of bottled up hatred, but now the moment was here he had no words at all, only a soaring sense of righteousness. He raised the cleaver above his head, brought it down with all his strength on his father’s neck, kept hacking away until he was sprayed with blood, until the gurgling and choking ceased, the blade crunching through bone and gristle as his head parted company from his shoulders.

Andrew dropped the blood-slicked cleaver, opened the bottle of whiskey and drank to his father’s demise. Suzie was sniffing around the corpse, lapping at the puddle of blood. After several burning gulps of alcoholic victory, Andrew unbuckled his father’s belt, yanked down his trousers and grabbed his flaccid little dick. He sliced it away from the pubic tangle with a single slash of the cleaver, dumped a frying pan on the hob and sparked the gas, dropped the floppy piece of tender meat into a puddle of oil and let it sizzle. As the penis fried, Andrew drank more whiskey, began to sing with joy. He exuberantly tossed the severed dick about like a competitor on Masterchef, seasoned it with soy sauce and a pinch of salt, sang louder and danced a joyous jig around the corpse.

He allowed the dick to cool before laying it down in front of Suzie. The dog tucked in immediately, the tip of her feathered tail wagging in delight as she devoured the fried delicacy. Andrew watched her lick the grease from the floor feeling freer than he ever had in his life, and after a few more gulps of whiskey he grabbed his father’s head by the hair, dumped it on the kitchen counter. His father’s eyes were open, his mouth twisted into an expression of rage and surprise, and Andrew laughed out loud as he tugged down his jeans, started jerking off surrounded by the smoky odour of his father’s frying dick. When he came into the glazed eyes of his father’s severed head, he felt like he had scored a goal for England, like he’d won gold at the Olympics, like he’d just fucked a supermodel, and he knew he couldn’t stop there. He grabbed the defiled head by its hair, carried it into the bathroom, and dropped it down the toilet. Once his father’s pallid face was staring upwards from the bowl, semen dripping from his right eye, Andrew sat down on the seat and took the most gratifying shit of his life.

As he pulled his jeans back up, he felt a soaring sense of closure, and he wandered back into the kitchen, giving his father’s beheaded corpse a half-hearted kick in the nuts. He took a swig of whiskey, and waited for the cleanup crew to arrive, hoping they wouldn’t mind too much about the shit.