bITS 'N CHUNKS
This is another from my FB challenge a while back and I'm not gonna lie, I love this story because it's sordid and cynical (and not representative of what I actually think, please don't come for me) and it marks the point where my writing shifted from cool & calculated to not giving two fucks. It's very stream of consciousness and I fully admit it makes no sense. It's very...Chuck Palahniuk? As much as I love it, I've also never had any real desire to shop it around anywhere. It's not bad and it's not TOO weird to make it somewhere, it's just one of those things I'd rather share for free and be on with it. I think it's because it's a little too early-aughts quirky, it feels like one of those "started from the bottom now we here" stepping stones to me being able to control my language. But looking back it's the surreal, cinematic direction I ended up taking. I feel like every few years I try to ape myself. It is very NSFW for language & sexual content.
“We're All Done Looking for Our Lost Lenores”
What a nasty girl.
She's in a thin white t-shirt squatting over a bowl with ropey strands of thick, clear cum stretched like piano wire across her cunt. She's collecting it over a bowl for the fetish gimp just behind her in the kitchen, he's gonna eat it, and she'll pet him like a good puppy.
Drew has seen his wife's debut as a squealing porn starlet so many times that the tape skips and hisses—and that's how old it is. Twenty years ago she signed The Big Contract, worked for five years, became anti-porn, and now regularly launches crusades and rants against the industry. One minute she's advocating for sheep skin condoms, the next she's getting caught pouring gasoline in front of a well-known studio. That just the last week she sent a young girl out to masturbate in front of a school and flip off the principal. Drew wonders if she can even do a ten-two split with her legs anymore.
Bad girl oasis.
Meanwhile, Drew is a country songwriter and he doesn't care who knows it. Well-paid enough for his wife's history not to be a problem. Lord knows she'd never be accused of being no gold-digger living with him. And he certainly didn't compete with some of her former co-stars. Sex with Drew involved a few positions, a little dirty talk, some TV, and maybe some homemade fries later. She read his songs, he read her screeds. It had to be love.
Lust was something he wrote about in songs. His latest top-ten hit—or should he say, Bad Girl Alt Country Musician Lyra Winston's top-ten hit—was a rather sordid tale about the affair between an older woman and a much younger woman. The double fantasy (triple if you counted sweet, simple Annie's “Lyra” facade) landed squarely at number one and put them all on the hit list of church groups everywhere. The CIA/FBI and whatever else government entity was probably still tapping his phone to this day.
He had no need for affairs of the heart or dick, because he had his own little Lolita right here—no, not the one crunching taxes in the kitchen, the one on his static-y analogue TV. And he really needed to transfer her to digital, or maybe even find a digital copy. He'd searched all over discount web shops for just this one tape, maybe there weren't anymore. He could make copies and sell them.
In the end, he did decide to try a little something. Despite their ten months of a decent working relationship, he held out on little Lyra. A song that was a contender for her and a rival artist. Poor thing had no idea he'd been making deals behind her back pretty much since he was introduced to her. She had a pretty mouth and a cute pout; the song was all hers for a quick suck up behind the recording studio.
As soon as she unzipped his pants, he was back at home in his recliner re-watching his favorite scenes in crystal clarity. His future wife was coming out of the screen in her stained t-shirt that he could see her nipples through, lifting her leg up and planting her feet behind his head, showing the piano wire.
He was finished. He gave her the song, no hard feelings. Made a call to the other guy and told him he didn't have anything for him this month. Surprisingly, Lyra didn't sue or even stop talking to him. They had another hit on their hands later in the year.
One morning, Drew made breakfast for his wife: rye toast with soft cheese and butter, blueberries and blackberries, grilled avocado, orange juice, and turkey bacon. He dropped a berry and bent over to catch it; from his ankle and trailing all the way upstairs to his study room there was a thick, ropey strand of cum that he knew attached to the bottom of his recliner.
His wife was at the top of the stairs. She was radiant. The probably-underage specter next to her was grimy and hungry.
“Good morning,” he said.
Ia! If you've come this far, you're either looking for weird or you know you've found it...