by Sims, Karina
I flip the case over and see a bunch of queeny boys on the back. They’re fish facing and posing as slutty as the girls ever could. I smile thinking how cute the whole concept of women trying to fuck men is. I think it’s totally great that for one day they got to be the ones drilling holes and pounding ass. Makes me think of a Make-a-Wish Foundation for used up porn stars dying of AIDS and the advanced stages of various STDs and the kinds of wishes they’d make. “I’d like to shoot my dad,” or, “I’d like to rape my brother while my friends watch.” You know, that kind of thing. I laugh a little and put the DVD on the shelf, turn around and almost smash into this guy standing right behind me.
He’s got real shaggy grey hair and those huge black sun blockers that only sex perverts and old people wear and he’s hugging a packaged blow up doll to his chest. He’s got a whale of a waist line, the pockets of his green khakis bulging like huge tumors. He stands a whole two heads taller than me and when he doesn’t move out of the way I wonder how much blood is in his body. “I’m ready to make a purchase.”
I walk over to the till and scan his doll while he runs his fingers through the display of dangling keychain whips on the counter. I stuff the doll inside a small garbage bag and make sure our fingers don’t touch as he hands me three twenties. I slide him his change across the counter, “Is that everything?”
He nods, mumbles something to himself on his way out, his pockets swaying massive. A couple feet from the doors he stops real awkwardly, and looks at the lingerie display on the wall. When he steps between the two security poles by the door the sound of the alarm is almost deafening. This big lug, he spins around to face me, pushes his hands in his pockets and pulls out foam tit stress balls, vibrating penis pens, a miniature pocket pussy. Handfuls of flavored condoms, little vibrators and bottles and bottles of heating lubricant fly onto the floor. The look on his face, he looks like a deer caught in headlights. I kind of just stand there and then sit down on my stool. After a few seconds, when I do nothing but sort of tent my fingers and think about buying different toilet paper, he yells at the top of his lungs, “Only God can judge me!” then runs out the door, his mouth hung open, that fucking garbage bag blow up doll held tight against his chest.
IV
If I squint and look at the park benches sideways, they look like tombstones in the dark. The only light comes from the moon and a few dim lamps lined along the jogging path far enough apart from one another to create a space of total darkness before one ends and another begins. I’m sucking a mouth full of M&Ms so thin that when I rattle them between my teeth, they shatter and make me think of cave men kneeling in sand, beating dry animal bones over rock. From where I’m standing I can see the jogging path but not much of it. My view is skewed by trees grown together in thick clusters and if I enter this tiny forest, I can reach the back door of my house within minutes.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see dim shadow play, slight changes in the light on the path. I slip into the trees, branches dragging across my face, past my ears. About six feet in, I’m across from the water fountain and from here I can see the path in its entirety. I can see where the little dirt route winds slightly, making the runners zig zag as they make their way down. I pop more M&Ms in my mouth, rattle them around and smile as I watch whoever the fuck swerve closer.
I can see she’s female. As she moves in and out from under the lamps I notice she’s wearing a white t-shirt, white ear buds attached to an iPod strapped to her arm, brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, swinging back and forth with every sprint. I wouldn’t call her fat, but I wouldn’t call her beautiful either. She’s not skinny enough to be actually pretty. When she’s close to the fountain she slows down to a walk. Across her chest her shirt reads University of Oklahoma.
Out of nowhere, another jogger appears from the other direction and this one has a dog. Her pace indicates she doesn’t intend on stopping to have a drink, but her dog stops in mid run, turning in my direction and barking barking barking. He’s up on both hind legs barking at the face he can’t see. The woman, she slaps her dog on the back, yanks his leash and drags him along with her. He doesn’t stop barking and she doesn’t stop jogging. The things people will ignore for a good cardio workout.
The lady with the dog disappears, leaving University of Oklahoma alone in the dark. She stretches her legs when she stops, panting she wipes some loose hair off her forehead, her hands on her hips as she steps awkwardly towards the fountain. I’m guessing that she probably moved up here after school, got a new job, a new boyfriend, started some new life. Jogging must be her way of feeling like she’s really holding it together, like she’s doing well for herself because she’s staying active and eating right. Even with her head in the fountain, she doesn’t take out her ear buds as she laps up quick gulps of water. Looking up and down the path to make sure no one is near, I’m winding a stretch of nylon cord around my knuckles, a length of two and a half feet give or take, stroking the sides with my thumb, making sure it’s nice and tight. I close my eyes for just that second when I hear her come up for air, gasping, a throat full of water about to shoot down into her belly. I move out of the trees, across the grass, the path and dirt silent as a ghost, the cord twice around her neck faster than she can breathe. Before her hands shoot up I’ve turned her around so she’s facing the woods. I kneel into her spine and she drops hard onto her face. I stand up fast, yanking the cord so she has no option but to stand with me or choke to death right then and there. A few steps forward is all it takes and she’s collapsed into the brush and trees of the little forest. Just before I feel her go completely limp, before the lights go out, I flip her over and her knee sails weak into my crotch. This is learned behavior; I guess being dragged into the bushes must not be a new thing for her. But when she sees my long hair, feels the flatness where, statistically speaking, the dick of an abductor should be, I don’t need to slam her skull against the trunk of a tree because she just passes out trying to scream with whatever air is still inside of her lungs. I don’t need to do it, but I do anyways.
Sticks and branches snapping beneath her weight, my sneakers, I drag her by the armpits into the basement of my house. My basement, it’s actually just a tiny root cellar with old wood floors and chairs that I have to keep replacing because of chop marks. I keep these chairs held in place with steel brackets and a couple of screws. However, before I can really get her down there, she starts to wake up and I don’t want to fall down the stairs along with her when she starts flailing and kicking up a storm, so I just let her go, her body tumbling down the steps. I close the basement door and turn on the light at the top of the stairs before going down to her. There’s a big split on her hair line, blood trails running through her hair and down both cheeks. I put my head to her chest, my fingers on her wrist to make sure she’s still alive, that she’s still with me. Puny bumps under my middle and pointer finger tell me I haven’t lost her yet. I strip off her clothes and sit her up on the chair; I loop one hand through the back and lock her wrists with handcuffs. Same story with the ankles, only I spread her legs apart and cuff them at the back.
Sometimes I like to make movies, that’s why I keep camera equipment down here, but mostly I just like to take pictures—pictures with tons of flash; women tend to scream more when there’s lots of flash, especially if I’ve turned off the lights. Tonight, I take off my clothes, toss them onto the stairs and switch on the power strip my video camera is plugged into. While I wait a few seconds for it to turn on I look behind me, at the axe against the wall, the hunting knife hanging on a nail. This camera of mine, it’s one of those old school VHS deals, great as long as you don’t have to use the battery pack. Outdoors it’s hopeless; the battery only runs for five minutes, even if you spend three days charging the crap out of it. Carl gave it to me about three years ago. It was signed into the psych ward inventory and swiped a couple days later. Carl and I, we’d been talking about shooting some wedding videos on the side. Well, more so him than me. He said so
mething about wanting to capture unhappy faces at celebrations or some retarded thing. He spent thirty bucks running an ad in the newspaper and when he finally got a call back, the soon-to-be newlyweds sent him packing when they caught a glimpse of his equipment. So he gave it to me, and I’ve been using it ever since.
I sit behind the camera and massage my pussy till it’s good and wet enough to slip a few fingers in and out. I do this for a good five minutes before University of Oklahoma, her head bowed to her chest, wakes up and blinks for a few seconds. I didn’t notice it before, but one of her eyes has gone totally red and the lid doesn’t open all the way. Her head is swaying from one side of the tiny room to the other, totally dazed, when I smile at her and say “Hi.”
Her head slowly bobbing in my direction, she stares dead center into the camera and screams when she sees me propped up on my knees, pushing fingers into myself. My aunt Marcy, she lives two floors up from this little basement, and she’s half deaf and in a wheelchair. There isn’t a ramp for her to take down to my floor, the one below hers, so I don’t really have to worry about any interruptions. Nevertheless, even coming from a throat that is probably bruised and will swell shut by morning, this girl is screaming pretty damn loud. That’s because fear, real fear will make you do things you’d think you couldn’t do. I’m pretty sure if those handcuffs weren’t the real deal, she’d break right through them. She screams when I walk on my knees towards her. She screams when I dip my head between her thighs and she screams the whole ten minutes I spend licking her pussy and chewing her tits. She keeps yelling, “What the fuck are you doing?” She keeps yelling, “Stop it!” Even when her voice is hoarse and all scratchy she keeps calling for help.
When I start getting bored, I sit on her lap, wrap my arms around her shoulders, she tries to spit in my face but there isn’t anything in her mouth but strings of blood and strips of tissue from biting her tongue and inner cheek. She can’t look me in the eyes, she kind of just bows her head and whimpers, “Why are you doing this?”
I want to hug her but I don’t want to get within head butting range. I drum my fingers on her shoulder and pull her hair so she has to look in my face, but she keeps her eyes closed so I pull hard at one of her earlobes until she opens them. I smile, stroking the side of her head, the one I whacked against the tree. “Look, I’ll tell you what, OK? If you...” I tap her tit with my fingertip, “…if you suck my cunt for about, oh let’s say five minutes...” Her eyes start to close and her head slumps down a bit. I pull her hair again, tears rolling from her swollen eyes. I hold up my hand, all five fingers wide apart, “Just five minutes and I`ll let you go. I absolutely swear...” I put my hand over where my heart is supposed to be. “I will let you out of the handcuffs. OK?”
We sit there, her cuffed to that chair, me on her lap, we just sit there in total silence until her head drops, I can’t tell if it’s her throat that’s finally ballooning up or if it’s real pain in her voice when she finally speaks. “Why are you doing this?”
I pinch her cheeks, squint into her eyes and can’t stop myself from grinning into her adorable little face, baby talking and everything. “Because you’re just so cute!”
I stand up, put my leg up on her thigh and push my pussy into her face. In a situation like this, one that already seems impossible to imagine, a victim will always believe escape is possible. No one wants to believe they are about to die when just an hour before they were doing something as normal as going for a jog. No one wants to accept that just one hour later they are locked inside a dark, grubby basement, tied to a chair and suffering from massive head trauma while being forced to perform oral sex on some pale lesbian.
University of Oklahoma, the silly, stupid girl, she takes a sort of deep breath and goes for the plunge. I can tell right away it’s her first time doing this. Clearly she didn`t do much experimenting in college and right now, her performance level is proof. But the good news is, eating pussy is not a science, it’s not difficult. In fact, I’m willing to gamble that it’s one of the easiest things known to man, because after a little bit, she’s doing great. Those five minutes I promised, well they go right out the window. I’m guessing I make her do this for a good fifteen to twenty before I come and pull away. “See? That wasn’t so hard was it?”
She looks away, shivers and spits off to the side. “Can I go now? My boyfriend…” Her eyelids opening and closing separately, she’s slurring her words. “…he’ll worry.” I’m not sure if she can feel it, but there’s a steady stream of blood running out of her right ear. I’m trying to focus on what she’s saying, but the flow of blood is very distracting.
I stand up, nod, walk back behind the camera. I make sure the shot is still dead center, and it is. “Yeah, you can go now.”
Her shoulders sag in relief.
I bend over, look into the eye piece of the camera and reach behind me, grabbing the axe leaning against the wall. “Thing is...” Her eye lids, they blink out of synch just as her other ear begins to hemorrhage large drops of crimson onto her neck and chest. “Thing is babe, I don’t have any keys for those cuffs.” I stand up straight. “But I said I’d get you out of those right? And fair’s fair.”
Her eyes bulge as the axe catches her collar bone. She screams so loud I don’t even hear the bones snap.
I laugh. “Oops! Sorry sweetheart, I missed!”
Hot ribbons of blood whip across my face, my stomach, my whole body as I swing again, taking off her arm at the elbow. With three chops, one of her legs comes loose above the kneecap. She only stops screaming when the axe opens the bottom of her throat and top of her sternum. I slip the cuffs off the hands on the floor. I light a cigarette, turn off the camera, eject the tape and toss it onto her lap. “You can go home to your boyfriend now.”
V
“Yeah that’s true, so does The Beatles’ ‘Revolution Number 9.’ Played backwards the words are ‘turn me on dead man turn me on dead man.’ Crazy shit, huh?” Carl pushes the neck of his beer bottle into his chest and scratches his nose. Turning to the guy sitting beside him, the guy wearing brown leather everything, bright pink sunglasses inside the club, Carl nudges him and says, “Stairway to Heaven, I think goes something like, ‘there was a little tool shed where he made us suffer sad Satan.’”
The leather man, his drink clinks against mine as he lifts it off the table, up to his lips. “Gotta think about it, man. Led Zeppelin, man. They knew what they were writing...”
I take a swig of my beer, try cracking my neck as I look over at a blonde waitress who once told me she was a model or something. I put the bottle back on the table and inch over a bit towards Alison, who looks about as bored as I am. “Well you’d think that, but Zeppelin technically never wrote ‘Stairway to Heaven.’” Carl rolls his eyes and shifts in his seat as I lift my beer again. “It was actually written by a band called Spirit in nineteen sixty-seven. Spirit toured with Zeppelin but the band kinda fizzled out and Zeppelin just stole it from them.”
Carl and the leather man are quiet for a minute, then leather man says, “‘They give him a six six six.’”
I shake my head, “No, it’s ‘He’ll give those with him six six six.’”
Leather man heaves a sigh, “They didn’t steal it from Spirit.” He stands up and staggers off towards the dance floor, his feet vanishing inside a cloud of fog being sprayed into a mob of dancing drunken nobodies.
Alison is peeling the label off her beer. Carl kisses her shoulder and runs a hand through his hair. “Is it Saturday speeds tonight?”
I shrug, chug my beer. “No idea. Fuck that shit, speed dating is for queers.”
Carl laughs but Alison doesn’t. She keeps peeling the paper label off the beer she isn’t drinking. She scowls at me, “You know this is a gay bar, right?”
The waitress-model-blonde girl, whatever she is—she’s all legs anyway—she winks at me as she walks by holding a tray of pints and shot glasses gleaming like razor blades. I smile and sip my drink, turning away fro
m her, looking at Alison. “Well, no shit. Really?”