Bestiality

The first time I saw myself on video I got a hard on.  I don’t remember the girl’s name, but I remember what her blood smelled like as she died.

It started out innocently enough.  I took her to a rundown motel and paid her fifty bucks to let my partner videotape her.  I told her to strip and bent her over the dresser, entering her. She moaned softly and I couldn’t tell if she was enjoying it.  I pushed my fingers into her hair, stroking the pale mane gently. “Do you like it when I fuck you?” I murmured against her ear.  She only bit her lip and closed her eyes.

I lowered my head and kissed her shoulder, and the sensuous taste of her skin caused my animal instinct to take over.  The girl’s eyes fluttered open and she let out a startled gasp as I curled my fingers tightly around her hair and pulled her head sharply back.  “Oh god,” she whispered, her voice trembling once she realized I had her small frame pinned completely against the dresser.  I smiled at the thought of what I was about to do to her, and a low laugh escaped my lips.  

“God?” I replied, “No darling.  God has forsaken you.”  She struggled in vain, whimpering, and tears stained her cheeks.  Her pitiful cries soon turned into screams as I sank my fingers into her back, clawing at the flesh savagely.  The camera zoomed in on her mouth, opened wide in terror, and her head slammed into the streaked mirror over and over again as I hammered myself violently inside her.  I growled in lust and hunger, and my mouthful of sharp teeth sliced into her delicate skin.  I lapped up the blood that poured from her wounds and brought my hand up to her breast, my eyes glinting in the poor light as I smiled slyly into the camera.  

When I came, the intensity of release brought forth a guttural raging howl and I closed my eyes until the feeling passed and I became myself again.  I climbed off the corpse and staggered to the bathroom, turning the shower on.  As I left, I made sure to reach into her purse and retrieve the fifty before closing the door, leaving the carnage behind.

There are others like me, men that possess an agonizing thirst for the blood of women.  They look like everybody else, but their daydreams are haunted with pornographic images of women, naked and exposed, covered in blood.  And when they make love to their wives, they often silently wish for piercing screams of anguish, only climaxing at the thought of that certain intoxicating look all women get when tortured.  The look is more beautiful when you finally tear them to shreds. 

To our kind, mutilation and sex are forever intertwined.  It has been so since the dawn of creation.  We don’t struggle with the question of it.  We don’t fight to suppress it.  And we no longer reel against the idea of it.  We simply kill.  You read about us in the paper sometimes, but often you’re not allowed the privilege of the details.  How, after the victim was raped, the entrails were torn out and feasted upon.  And always, a video camera and tripod remained, but never a tape.  

Knowing that there was a relic for each of our vicious acts comforted us.  We did this, so we could live on.  Even the men with badges were fearful to let the brutality of the crimes be known.  It’s likely that every night they tucked their children into bed and prayed desperately that tomorrow would be different.  So far, their prayers have fallen on deaf ears.

They don’t always walk into my traps willingly.  No, some of them have to be forced into it.  The last girl was difficult.  She put up a fight, by god, determined not to go down easily.  I had deep fingernail scratches on my face and torn clothing by the time I got her chained to the bed.  

Working alone this time, I set up the video camera myself before approaching her.  I rubbed my hand down her smooth white belly, and her mouth quivered when I reached her underwear.  I ripped them off, cruelly slapping her across the jaw as I revealed the fiery red pelt that matched her bright curls.  When I entered her, she cried, making desperate, futile attempts at negotiation.  

She pleaded incessantly with me, a river of tears streaming down her face.  I didn’t know whether she cried from the pain of me hurting her, or the torment of humiliation as she was made to submit, and I never really cared.  I violated her mercilessly and took pleasure in knowing what I was about to take from her.  

“Look at the camera baby,” I purred, laying my hand across her face and pressing to the right, so that she had no choice but to do what I asked.  The elusive primal urge that I had been waiting for finally took hold of me, and I yearned for blood.  

“Take a good hard look,” I leaned down and whispered through her screams.  “Because it’s the last thing you’re ever gonna see.”

I replay the tapes every now and again, watching myself with one unlucky wretch after another.  Its always the same; only the girls change.  The film is grainy and the colors are monochromatic.  The sound, you can barely make out.  They never say anything of interest, only begging when it is required of them.  The scene always ends the same way.  At a certain point you start to see the metamorphosis:  the bristled hair lengthening, the nails sharpening.  Then the camera will invariably go dark, and when it returns everything is red from the blood.  And the last thing you see are the yellow eyes of a wolf.

The Day Harold Finally Flew

Nearly every morning when Harold awoke he stood near the edge of the bed and started flapping his arms.

–You’re never going to fly, Helen said.

Harold glared at his wife.  She always said the same thing to him each and every morning.

–How do you know?  Harold shot back.  –One of these days you’ll see.-

Helen didn’t say anymore.  She just rolled her eyes and headed into the bathroom.  After she was gone Harold continued flapping his arms for a few more seconds.

It had always been Harold’s dream since he was a boy. He would spend hours watching the birds fly around wishing he could be like them.  Just because it hadn’t happened yet didn’t mean it wouldn’t.

–You’re not a child anymore, Helen would say to him.  –You’re not even a young man.-

Harold remembered a time, not so many years ago, when Helen believed in him.  He would even mind her about it, sometimes.

–Yes, she would say.  –But that was about real things.  Like getting a promotion at work.  Not about something as ridiculous like thinking you can fly.-

Maybe it was ridiculous, Harold thought, but he kept believing, kept the dream alive even when Helen pooh-poohed it.

It was a Saturday morning and Harold and Helen had slept in the way they often did on the weekends.  Harold got up and Helen turned over, mumbling in her sleep.  Harold left the bedroom and went out into the kitchen to get the coffee started.  When he had it going Harold opened the back door and stepped out onto the deck.  The sun was bright and shining and the air felt warm.  It was going to be a beautiful day.

Harold closed his eyes and started flapping his arms.  Out here on the deck he had plenty of room so he flapped his arms faster and harder than how he normally would when he was standing in the bedroom.  Harold felt something strange begin to happen.  He felt himself rising up into the air.  Harold was afraid to open his eyes.  Afraid, if he did, the whole thing would turn out to be just an illusion, a figment of his imagination.

Harold kept flapping his arms and he was sure of it, now.  It wasn’t an illusion.  Harold really was rising into the air.  After climbing several feet he opened his eyes and looked down.  He saw the deck and the house growing smaller and smaller.  Harold continued flapping his arms and not only did he keep rising but he, also, started flying around.

Harold flew away from the house and out over the neighborhood.  He flew past the Garvey’s house and the Shoemachers and out away from the town.  Harold found, now, that he was in the air, he didn’t have to flap his arms nearly as much to stay suspended.  Harold laughed and thought, if only Helen could see him now.

Harold wasn’t paying attention to where he was going and the large blade of a wind turbine crashed into him and he spiraled down to the ground.  The impact knocked Harold unconscious.

Harold had no idea how long he had been lying there when he, finally, opened his eyes and stared up at the sun.  He wasn’t sure if he was capable of moving but after a few minutes he managed to sit up.

Harold rubbed the back of his head, gently, checking his hand to see if there was any blood.  Luckily there wasn’t any.  There was just a throbbing pain running through his skull.  Harold wasn’t sure what he was going to tell Helen if he made it back home.  Maybe he could make it back home before she woke up.

After all of his years of wanting to fly and wanting Helen to believe in him Harold had no desire to tell her he had, finally, done it.  And now that he had done it, had actually flown up into the air, Harold had no desire to ever do it again.  Harold stood up.  His legs felt shaky but he remained on his feet.  He waited another moment or two and then, slowly, started walking and making his way back home.  

Can We be Friends?

Blood in the ocean, I have shark like eyes. My teeth are big, do you want to see them? I’ll be kind, I promise, I won’t bite. Under the blue water I track the long legs that move, quickly trying to keep lungs clean. There are different sizes. Some are skinny, pure bone with a thin layer of skin. Others are thick, muscles bulging, beckoning. I watch them with mild interest, waiting for the right one, mouth watering. It’s always great to fill my stomach, red meat, juicy flesh, coating the emptiness inside. There’s joy in the hunt, from the wait to the attack. 

An expectation that tastes bittersweet climbs up my throat, a low sound of hunger, a narrowing of my eyes. I know when the time comes, I feel it from beginning to end. I’m not cruel about it, even though I enjoy it. I make it quick. I’ll drown you nice and sweet. There is no point in torture, it’s a useless delay. I get straight to the point, holding you under, hugging you to my chest, like a mother cradles her child. I have strong arms, they don’t waver. I keep you there with me for as long as it takes, until your body stops moving, finding stillness underwater. 

I only start biting once I know you’re dead, I don’t let you see the blood, chunks of you finding their way into my mouth. I honor your sacrifice, I savor you, take my time. I don’t like to rush the process, losing my head in the enjoyment. Each moment is mine, I take care of it, make sure I’ll remember all the details so I can play it back once we are done. The memory feeds me over and over again. 

Isn’t this nice? You and me under seafoam. It’s so clear I can see all the details of your face, your beauty brings me happiness. I like to hoard beautiful things, so I’ll take every piece of you for myself, from the flesh of your arms to your organs, gorgeous bloody things. Your hair tickles my neck as you thrash around, it makes me giggle, you’re so playful. I wish we could play hide and seek together, with all these dark rocks around, we would have a blast. But it’s wrong to play with your food, I know that. Still, it would be so fun to spend more time with you. 

They all leave me so fast it makes me want to cry, tears mingling with the salt water. It would be so nice to capture a friend. I would hunt for the both of us, find us nice shelter, tell all my secrets. You would make a good friend, resilient like this, how you struggle, with such strength! I honestly feel like you are doing this just for me! It’s so nice when it takes a while, we just dance around in the water. Are you sure you don’t want to be my friend? I promise if we become friends I’ll never bite you, I’ll be so sweet to you, we’ll be close like siblings, I know so many fun games, you’ll never get bored!

Oh. You stopped moving. That’s fine. I really thought you would say yes. Well, we must go on with the show. 

What strange clothes you people wear, I use them as little flags for all my favorite rocks. I’ll keep yours too, I know just where to put it. Now, where should I begin? I like to change things up a bit every time, it makes it more exciting. Your left leg looks so delicious, that’s where I’ll start. You taste just right, I knew you were the one. Now I don’t feel so bad for not keeping you as a friend, you were made to be eaten. I can take my time, everyone knows to leave me alone, I like to have my meals in solitude. Although to be fair, your blood smells fantastic, I would understand if they got curious. 

Oh, how quick I gobbled up your legs! I couldn’t help myself, this is truly fine dining! My teeth bite down with efficiency, that’s how I learned to go about this.Your arms are next. I’m… What’s the word? I always forget it, I get so caught up in this, everything else is misplaced. I’m organized… I’m… I’m…

Methodical! That’s right. I’m methodical, once I decide where to start I like to follow a system. First your legs, next your arms, then I’ll take chunks of your torso. 

You look so crazy like this! My bloody little treasure. I know what I’m going to do. I’ll leave your heart for dessert. I just know you had a good one. 

China

She materializes before my shift is over. At the bar, my proving ground, my killing fields, my Elysia. Wiping a counter, I watch Tom Rong talking her up or trying to. The language barrier is beyond his intellectual capacity. Her accent sounds Mandarin – a lot of shushing and whooshing. Since I’m such a linguistic expert. She notices me scoping her; there’s no language for that, no need for translation. I finish cleaning up lightning-fast change shoes and shirt. Quick underarm sniff. Huh. Okay. In pheromones I trust. I amble up to the bar like I own the place and sit on the stool next to her. No bullshit hair dye or fancy styling, just long, straight, purplish-black strands in an exuberant cascade. Her face, a classic oval moon, smoothly tapered jaw, full indigo lips, eyes like arabesques. Hot. I don’t know how exactly we manage to communicate, but she likes her rum and cokes. Tom Rong keeps watering her like a horse. Soon we’re flirting and lightly touching. Experimentally. She’s on the sturdier side but more like an ex-gymnast than, say, an ox. Her hands convince me; very proportionate, well-defined, nails neatly trimmed without any garish polish or ostentatious manicuring. Human connection? Animal attraction? A couple of horny lushes? Tom Rong intuits my motivations, and despite his side-eyed and slobbery insinuations, hands me a nice bottle of Merlot; not spendy but not cheap either. I get the hint. Tom, call me a cab – China, let’s get the hell out of here. At the Outrigger I’m the pint-sized playboy with my spartan bar: fresh bottle of Stolichnaya in the freezer stash of skunk bud in the kitchen cabinet. But first things first: I flip open the laptop and press a few tabs. R&B standards: Smokey, Gladys, Etta, Tina, Sam Cooke, Isaac Hayes, JB, Aretha – but the main gyration is Otis. Otis Redding who on a starless wintry night in 1967 dropped out of the sky into the frigid waters of Lake Monona. I load a bong find a corkscrew pop the wine grab a couple glasses saunter over to the futon couch – China’s already barefoot. A beautiful woman who barely speaks English. Otis, crooning The Happy Song:

It makes you want to shout – in fact it knocks you out!

The song delights China who begs me to play it again. Moments later we’re ripping each other’s clothes off. It’s strangely fulfilling to fuck somebody without the usual vocalized preamble of penchants and hatreds. Not unlike an escort but with the bonus of not having to pay. China smells good and has few inhibitions. But when I try rimming her purple ringlet, she wriggles and somehow finds the word tickles in her vocabulary. Kawaii! When it’s time I reach under the futon for condoms, my hand searching with a little frantic dance. My supply is low. In fact, I’m down to the generics, snagged from the free clinic after a rare STD check-up. China’s panting and pulling me towards her, urging me forward, chanting, incanting, Happy hong, happy hong, da-de-dum-dum! Okay okay! I rip open the packet work it on look down to see my old boy standing stiff, straight – and black. Like dipped in crude oil. Fuck it, so I’m a Negro from the balls up. I slam it in. China’s a good sport meets me thrust for thrust. I consider subscribing to The Rosetta Stone. Maybe I’ll never have to talk shit with a white woman ever again. One can always dream. Then it’s over and I withdraw. Goddamn! Cheap-ass, stale-ass fucking defective black latex condoms! Ripped! Trust me, it’s not like my dick is a chisel or anything. I ball that mess up quick fling it into a corner of the room. But China’s uncannily alert for a drunken foreigner. Wah happen? Wah happen? She dives for the evidence. With squinty dismay she displays the dripping victim of my priapic maul between thumb and forefinger. It break? Shit shit! It break! I upturn my hands in exasperation. What can I do? The damage is done. I console China, we drink more wine, we drink all the wine, and as I advance to the Stoli, China falls fast asleep. Off like a light switch. In the morning the indictment begins. She’s sober now and worried about our baby. After an awkward interlude of broken translation and copious tears, it comes to light that China is in all actuality a mail-order wife on the stray. I call out sick and whisk her to breakfast at the Continental where after several mimosas, she’s singing Dum-dum dilly de-dum-dum again, and, after a stop at the corner bodega for some mighty Trojans, we’re back at the Outrigger. 

Fucky sucky!

A week later she shows up at the bar, effusive, upbeat, with the breaking news update. Unfortunately, we are not going to be raising a baby. But China wants to hear Otis again, except this time, no black dick! Shit shit!