Isaac Forsyth ~ Whorebesity

by Horror Sleaze Trash on December 21, 2013

Keeper

Born a child of the road story telling came to me early. Father Australia, Mother French, comprehension of language Israel (perhaps Egypt.)

When you don’t speak one language but a mixture of three at the same time, you gotta learn to amuse yourself, because everyone else is confusion manifested.

My family skipped about the globe rather nomadically, eventually settling in a costal town up north, that of which I won’t go into, where I joined the circus and participated in lunacy for 12 good years alongside my regular education.

After completion of High School I jumped an airship towards Nantes, France, and got involved in theatre, installation art and poetry. During this period I was also spending 5 hours a day vigorously writing what I thought to be the screenplay that would kick-start my career. It took 7 years to complete and is yet to kick start shit.

I returned from the motherland fresh, yet unable to continue living in my previous home and thusly migrated to Melbourne town in search of culture and vibration.
Moving away from the world of feature script writing I joined a rag tag bunch of misfits known as “Drunk Mums” as a kind of sideshow geek, bitting the heads off of chickens and foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. This was and continues to be a great source of therapy, yet does not occupy my thirst for knowledge…
So, I was off to the Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology to study in the field of Creative Writing. I have learned much from this decision and managed to get some of my work published in the notorious Rabbit Journal.

Now the year has ended and I am working on conceptual absurdist plays, working with surface projection and a cat named “Font” from the enterprise known as “Culture Mechanics.  I would go into details but the nature of this work is rather secretive, so with that I bid you farewell.

 

Whorebesity

 

To deny yourself the darkness, is dangerous. To withhold the pleasures of flesh, to suppress, is to force pressure internally, unhealthy. Life has an initial lack of meaning, it sooner or later inches through the lining of protection to lust and self-destruction, when it finally gives way… there’ll be the devil to pay.

 

Scarlet was thirteen when she first experienced the “fire,” the one she felt when she had no control, when it was taken from her. Taken by Gustape, the smart boy, able to recall everything he read, one with unquenchable thirst for power, chaos manipulator and conquistador. He’d always given her attention when no one else had. Her mother had died giving birth to her and daddy dearest’s interest lay more in in Mickey Jr., her older brother and best friend to Gustape.

 

Gustape would tell her she was a smart girl, and that he liked her red hair, one of her many attributes the other school kids made fun of her for.

When he took her and made her bleed for the first time he left her there on the bed, full of cum, knowing that he had again won another of his games. He smiled at his own reflection and then dissipated.  Contrary to what one would assume, she didn’t feel hurt, she didn’t feel abused or used, she felt awake, she felt wanted, so much so that someone was willing to take her no matter the consequences.

 

Scarlet fell pregnant, Mickey Jr. found out how and exploded into a wild unstoppable rage; he tracked down Gustape and beat him to death with his fists, he then proceeded to throwing himself off the Westgate bridge to his death.

The stress of these events proved to much for Scarlet and prompted a miscarriage, leading to a great depression in which she blamed herself for the murder suicide and the death of her unborn child. To put it simply she now saw her own pleasure as evil, and locked it away deep inside herself.

 

As it does, time goes by, 12 years to be exact.

 

Mickey Snr. dies drink driving and Scarlett returns home to pack down and sell the family home. Whilst doing so she comes across a diary in a box underneath her father’s bed, the diary of her brother. It states that he and Gustape had in fact been lovers, but as we know already, Gustape had wondering eyes. Had a tendency to play games and in the end, unable to go along with those games any longer, Gustape played the murder suicided card and it was all over for them. She keeps the book, keeps it on her nightstand and reads it every night, subconsciously decoding her way to release.

 

A stranger introduces himself outside The Paperback bookshop as it’s closing one Saturday night. Though she tries to decline, he is convincing and she finds herself following him around the corner and into an elevator to a party in the penthouse of a luxurious building. Inside everyone is finely dressed, exotic, aristocratic, intimidating. After a short time she goes to sneak out unnoticed and wanders into a bedroom unintentionally.

Standing at the window looking out across the city stands a tall woman with blonde hair.

Scarlet lets out a noise of surprise and the woman turns, revealing that she isn’t a woman at all but a transvestite, and not just any transvestite.

Abra Astarte, a celebrity in the field of sex work, known universally as “The Man Queen of True Whispers.“

The two talk a while, Abra effortlessly makes Scarlet comfortable solely with powers of charisma, the whole story comes out and Abra simply nods back in judgemental understanding.  From this conversation, he/she goes on to tell Scarlet that she is broken and in desperate need of fixing.

 

“The weeds that grow in the shadows can recognize each other, and those who have bloomed can always spot those who never will alone, those too afraid to stomp their feet and scream to prove they exist.”

 

This was the lead into a proposition for education. A radical psychotherapy designed by Abra him/herself for self-saboteurs and the reclusive. The ticket? A demonstration of willingness to push further then your average human mind is willing to be conscious for.

 

But first, paperwork. Protection from the law in the case of grievous bodily harm and trauma from the intended mental scarification to come.

“Think of it like sealing a wound made many moons ago…” says Abra holding out a pen, Scarlet hesitates a moment but eventually signs, and so it begins.

 

She soon comes to learn that yelling the safety word is hard when your air tight and have a head full of MDMA, it comes out more in the form of a frogs croak or whatever you call the sound a lama makes. Its even harder when you go into a orgasmic seizure and cum shoots from your every orifice like a Las Vegas water fountain while your eyes roll into the back of your skull and your seeing the face of god in the sweaty ball sack of your violator.  She learns degradation; she learns to change her pain into pleasure, complete regulation of her body and mind, like a Zen master. Breath become her everything. A mind empty, vacant of fear or worry or doubt… welcome, to Ataraxia.

 

But the more she experiences, the more she needs to push the pallet. She is on a quest of depraved sexual discovery; vaginal electro torture fantasies, titty fucks from the elderly, incest on family reunions. She finds herself seducing minors and having them fist her up the ass on the bonnet of a taxi as the driver jerks off, calls her a whore and spits on the window between them. She manages to get bang banged by a pack of brutal street dogs in a docklands back alley. She finds herself, having been administered an enema, in the street naked, stomach bloated and a ball gag in her mouth, a group of friends out for the night notice her and stop to check if she’s okay.

She’s on all fours, shitting out onto a post box. The water stops, there’s something still inside, blocking the exit, she pushes…hard. Finally it pops out, flops about in the retched gutter, the friends looks down and notice an eel gasping for breath, a man bends down…

“Holy shit! Miss are you okay? Who did this to you?”

She takes her right index finger, plunges it deep into her ass and looks him in the eyes, takes the finger out, smiles, sucks off the shit and squirts down her thighs.

 

It is clear that her thirst has made the swift transition from a keen interest to complete insatiability. Participating in lurid behaviour becomes her living, a working girl under the tutelage of Abra who is not just her coition mentor anymore, but also her father/mother figure and landlord. Nights are spent filled with screams of pleasure and pain, the sounds of whips and chains. Days are spent sleeping, pampering, shopping, studying and conceptualizing new and intricate sexual illusory. She is beginning to make quite a name for herself.

 

As it does, time goes by, 5 years to be exact.

 

Alas, what does one do once all has been done? When the very thing that made you feel alive and gave you purpose ceases to? You whither, suffer withdrawals, continuously push the pallet but the “fire” never comes. Madness, a void to which nothing can fill, not money, not books, nor any sex act, no matter the amount of pleasure, pain or conceptual complexity.  Her existence comes to a complete stop and she can go on no longer.

 

Now she stands on the Westgate Bridge, looking down at the Yarra, where all those years ago her brother had jumped. In her hollow life, the only thing she could find that gave her purpose and solidified her reality was gone, as with everyone she had ever loved. She takes a final breath, tells her brother she’ll see him soon and jumps. She crashes into the water, is knocked unconscious and dragged into the undercurrent.

 

I have watched over Scarlett Cora for a long time, most of her life, and it is not until now that I have stepped in, my justification? She has things to do before she can join her family here, where I am. I jump from my perch, following her movement in the water from a distance. I sail down from the sky, through the clouds unseen, unheard, undetectable. I crash into the waters and spot her flailing, coursing towards a pillar support of the bridge and manage to snatch her, drag her to the shore. Only then do I truly see her face for the first time, so beautiful, so pure and filled with pain, but she’s gone, dead, and I can’t help myself, I must.

I make love to her, for a long time too. It was dark when I started and now the sun rises and her beauty intensifies the higher it creeps into the sky.

I feel it; it’s on its way and its here, I cum, gloriously, right into her. A light begins to radiate from her abdomen and my physical being vortexes inwardly, I am imploding and erupting from my urethra, being vacuumed into uterus, I fly up her vagina, past the mighty walls of her cervix and see the egg, my ticket back.

I break it, climb inside and wait…

 

As it does, time goes by, 9 months to be exact.

 

I am naked, screaming in the hands of some doctor who tells my mother that I’m a boy. I am screaming, breathing again for the time and I am afraid, I do not know where I am or what’s going on yet. He wraps me in a blanket and hands me over to her, overwhelming warmth takes over me and I am calm. This in not my first time doing this, I was on this planet just over two thousand years ago and did not then feel as I do in this moment. I look up at her, stare into her eyes and she stares into mine… she smiles. She smiles at me and says, “I love you. You are mine and I am yours, I will never let you go.”

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