Chapter 2 - Novel in Progress

 

John

            Liz walks our guest to the door, gives him a hug, and then says, “Thanks for coming by.”

He smiles. His teeth blindingly white. “My pleasure, keep me in mind.” Liz watches him walk through the door, and then closes it behind her. Our eyes meet. She leans back against the door, closes her eyes and then opens them. “Well, that was, um, let’s just say, intense.”

          “Yeah, it was.” I am laying on the bed, still naked, waiting for the relaxation that usually comes after sex. Only it doesn’t come. I feel tense. Vulnerable. I pull the blanket up to my chest. “What was it like for you? Was it what you were expecting?”

          She picks her unfinished glass of wine up from the table, sips it, places it on the nightstand and gets into bed next to me. “It was different than I expected.”

          “How so?”

          She runs her right hand up and down the back of her head, a habit of hers that - through years of observation - I know reveals contentment, reminding me of  a cat purring.

          “I guess I thought it was going to be, I don’t know.” She reaches for her wineglass and takes a big gulp. “I don’t really know what I expected, to be honest. But I didn’t expect to feel so comfortable. And the weirdest thing is that I felt in control. Like I was the one doing the seducing.” She tilts her head and looks at me. “What about you?”

          “I thought it was hot,” I tell her. “Like we talked about. It was like seeing my hot wife fuck in a porno while I watched, wanting her to be all mine.” I grab her hand. She leans in and I kiss her hard.

          “Should we invite him back,” she asks, smiling.

          “Maybe we should find you another stranger.” I almost laugh out loud. The guy we spent the evening with tonight was a stranger.

          But only to Liz.

I know him as my boss.

Chapter 1 - Novel in Progress

Liz

  My heart beats so fast I am afraid my body will start shaking.

            The man I met three hours ago is kissing my neck, my breasts, lightly biting my nipples, and I am responding. My hands run through his black hair, against the stubble on his face, and after a while he lowers himself. I close my eyes, slightly gasp as his tongue finds itself inside me. I moan quietly. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of how easily he is pleasing me already. I want him to work for it. Go all out. Make me crazy.

            I want the lust again. The exciting feeling of doing something considered risque, naughty, somewhat forbidden. Like when I was sixteen. It’s been a long time since I felt sexy. Powerful. In control.

            But even though I am fifty, I can feel that familiar feeling right now, and the sudden realization of just how badly I have longed for it makes my entire body feel electric.

            Here I am. With a man twenty-five years younger than me, with a body of an athlete. On his knees. Me his entire focus.

            I grab his head and grind against his face.

            The surreal reality of the situation overpowers me.

            The candlelit hotel room.

            The first man I have been intimate with other than my husband since we married twenty-five years ago.

            He stops for a second, looks up at me, and says, “I want you so bad.”

            He stands, gently grabs my shoulders, begins kissing me on the lips, and lowers me back onto the bed.

            I pull him toward me, remove his boxers and take him in my hand, slowly bringing him close to my mouth.

            I tease him, mercilessly, until he is practically begging me to consume him. After a while I do. Right after looking into the eyes of my husband sitting in the chair across the room.

            His look is indescribable.

            I feel it then.

            This jolt.

            This awakening.

 

For God's Sake, Get the Fuck Out!

I have always had an obsession with The Amityville Horror.

    Ever since I was a kid, the movie, along with the book, has fascinated me. My love of all things horror began at birth, but this was different because it was based on a true story.

    Everyone I knew, including all of the adults in my life, believed this to be an account of a real life haunting, and even more disturbing was the fact that it supposedly began with a possessed man who shot his entire family to death as they slept in their beds. 

    None of them woke up, even though there was no evidence of drugs in their system. 

    And none of the neighbors heard any shots fired even though a silencer had not been used. The supernatural element came into play full force a year later when the Lutz family moved into the house, complete with some of the previous family's furniture. After only a month of what they described as frightening and life-threatening paranormal phenomena, they abandoned the home, leaving all of their belongings.

    Most of us know the claims made by the Lutzes and what they experienced during their thirty days of horror. The green slime that appeared in keyholes, on the rug, and walls. The demonic entity that appeared to the little girl as a pig and sometimes could make its physical presence known to others by cloven hoof prints in the snow, or a pair of glowing red eyes staring in the window. The young son having his hand flattened by a window that slammed shut by itself. The way every member of the family began sleeping in the same position, on their stomachs, the position the murdered DeFeo's had all been found in their beds. George Lutz consistently waking up at 3:15 am, the same time as the DeFeo murders.

    But the one thing probably most famous in this horror story are the swarms of flies that appeared even though it was winter. In the movie version they attacked the priest while he was giving his blessing, and then the demonic voice screamed for him to, "GET OUT!"

    Well it just so happens that I had the opportunity to live in the Amityville house this week. Relocated to West Chester, PA. 

    Life is just determined to place any obstacle, any setback, any problem in my path to make my daily life more pleasant. Beginning on Thursday I started noticing flies buzzing around my basement, which conveniently happens to be where my office is. One or two would appear, I would kill them. Then another two, and then another, and so on.

    This would be unusual even on a summer day. I rarely have had flies get into my house. But the fact that the weather here in West Chester has been as cold as the low 20's at times this past week is what makes it unusual and concerning.

    Because as of now, Saturday, December 7th, day three of this fucking shit, I have killed approximately, no lie, about 35 to 40 flies. Having gone to Home Depot last night and bought some fly traps, even though the activity has slowed down, it is still happening. There are now four flies caught on one of the traps.

    There is just something unnerving about seeing insects you typically only see in summer alive and well in your home during a bitterly cold week during the month of December. 

    It was truly wonderful yesterday being in four fucking meetings at work while flies buzzed around my desk, attracted to the lights on the ceiling, the light of my computer screen, and anything I may be eating or drinking. My irritation grew by the hour until the point where I felt like a fucking psycho as I became more determined to kill each and every one of them. This led to increased frustration as I would kill two, only to have two more appear minutes later. 

    The fuckiest part of all this is. Yeah I know, not even a word - but I am using it as one because I am feeling quite fucky tonight myself - is that I have a very strong feeling I know why this is happening.

    Could it be that we had an unusually warm Fall and that the insects did not die off and are now seeking a warm dwelling place?

    Possibly. 

    Unlikely though.

    The real reason they are probably here is because I have been working with an exterminator to determine how mice have gained access to my house. He placed bait traps throughout the house, as well as outside, both in the front, and most important, due to an enormous pound out back that looks like a small lake, in back of my house.

    I was hesitant when he put the bait traps in the house because the poison makes the mice thirsty, and causes them to exit the house in search of water. He explained that it causes them to "bleed from the inside."

    My fear was what if one of them cannot get out in time, and dies within the walls, or somewhere I am unable to find it? And I bet you any amount of money, even though I cannot detect any stench of decay, nor could my next door neighbor who I invited over yesterday to see if he could, I bet you that is exactly what happened.

    Yes, I am almost 100% sure one of those fuckers died somewhere in a wall, a fly got in, laid eggs in the decaying corpse, and now I get to pretend I am living in the fucking Amityville house.

    Needless to say I called the exterminator and he is coming out on Monday. But in the meantime I will just pray that the fly traps actually catch all the remaining ones. 

    And in the off chance that this is all supernaturally induced phenomena, well, I wouldn't be surprised because I have been in a very negative mindset this last year and out of curiosity I googled "Flies in house in winter." Many hits appeared, but one in particular caught my eye. It was an explanation from a spiritual perspective, and it explained the appearance of flies in a house is indicative of negative energy, bad vibes, and emotional turmoil.

    Check. Check, and check.

    Well, even if they are here due to supernatural reasons, it doesn't make any difference. They're still going to die.

    Oh, and if I happen to see Jodie, the demonic fucking pig with red eyes, well, let's just say that little bitch is going to get fucked up too!

    And just now a fly landed on my computer screen.

    Standing up, and doing my best Rod Steiger impression, I scream.

    GET OUT!!!!!!

    

    

    

     

          

This Shit REALLY may be True

 So this is the end.

    It's over.

    It was fun for about five minutes, but as always, almost as quickly as it resurfaces, the desire to write is gone, like the hope I once had.

    Like a match, when struck, offering you a few seconds of brightness, before it burns you and is extinguished, plunging you back into darkness.

    Every now and then this mood, this darkness, devours me.

    Nothing, and no one, can save me. I can only give in and allow the darkness to wash over me like an old, unwanted, and yet somehow comforting, blanket.

    Comforting you may ask?

    Yes, and what I mean by that is that I have given up hope. There is a comfort in knowing there is no point in ever trying to change things.

    I know for certain I will never find happiness, contentment, or peace. They may present themselves in brief bursts, but they will never last. And why is that comforting? Because I know deep down there is no point in striving for something that can never be mine. I know not to even bother exerting the energy. There is no point in setting goals, in looking ahead in life.

    Not much to look forward to.

    I am trapped in a fucking job I despise with no hope of getting out of any time soon.  Indefinite discontentment is all life offers me right now. Let's face it, when you hate your job you hate your life.

    Outside of work what is there to look forward to? My only family is my aunt and uncle, and my uncle doesn't even know what day of the week it is thanks to Parkinson's Dementia.

    My aunt, who I love more than anyone in this world, at 73 years of age, has finally slightly overcome her fear of driving, because she knew she had to. But oh God, I am terrified of her driving, because she is an awful driver, and I don't think she has it in her to ever improve. So that is one more thing for me to worry about.

    Not to mention if or when something happens to her, I will never ever recover. That will be the loss that completely destroys me. That literally will kill me without a doubt. She is the only one in life that never failed me in any way. The one who has always been there for me. Not many people out there like that. 

    But enough about the only family I have left.

    Most of the people I loved are gone. Not just through death.

    And the ones I lost who are still out there, or at least I think they are, are the ones that sometimes hurt the most.

    I don't know why I still think of someone who I was so responsible for losing.  But I do. In darkest times, I do.

    I still see your face, still hear your voice, still love you.

    And how I wish I could take back the brutal way I ended it with you, especially because I was not at all being honest with you, with what I was really feeling. 

    On nights like this my soul still speaks to yours. And sometimes I believe you actually hear it. That's how strong I feel the bond we once had was. It's a pain I will never be free of. One that consumes me when despair burns me to the ground.

    I will never get the chance to change it. You told me years ago you couldn't go back into the darkness of the past. But that you forgave me and hoped it helped, and also that I needed to stop living in the past.

    Maybe you were right. Maybe I did, and do, live in the past. 

    But that's because mine wasn't all dark. Mine had genuine moments of happiness, excitement, magic, and love.

    That's most likely why the present, despite seemingly having it all from an outsider's perspective, is often so bleak. 

    Life had so much potential when it began.

    So much potential. 

    I truly believed I was destined for extraordinary things.

    It started off like - and this is a line from the V.C. Andrews novel Flowers in the Attic - a perfect summer day.

    A perfect summer day.

    One that ended with the hint of an approaching storm.

    A storm that eventually came, violently, destructively, and only left fragments of happiness.

    Reminders of what life once was. 

    And can never be again.

       So....

    With that I leave you with a song from one of my very favorite artists, Trevor Something. Be warned, though, this song fits this posting, because it can turn even the brightest, happiest day, into a gloomy, moody, atmospheric, feeling of despair.

   

    

    

    

    

    

 

 

I Would Never

     I've often heard people say, "I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."

     I always think why the fuck not?

    I sure the hell would! Not only would I wish whatever horrible thing had happened to me on them. I would get down on my knees and pray they suffered ten times the amount.

    I'm just fucking with you. I'm not that kind of person. That's not what my Catholic faith taught me.

    I was taught to forgive and forget like Jesus. And I assure you I would. I would never allow myself hateful thoughts or entertain the desire for vengeance. It's just not who I am.

    I would never!

    Never, ever, ever! Not in a million years. I was raised better than that.

    But, if I were that kind of person, the possibilities would be endless.

    Like, there was this kid in my second grade class who wouldn't let me borrow his blue crayon. We were in art class, and our task was to draw our favorite thing about summer. It was May and we only had a few weeks left of school. I had drawn what I believed to be the most perfect illustration of the ocean with the sun brightening the water, and even a lifeguard stand with seagulls flying overhead, and I knew as soon as Sister St. Sebastian saw the magnificence of my work I would be given some kind of reward. Maybe I'd even get to have the rest of the day off. Or no homework that night.

    But nope.

    Didn't happen.

    Know why?

    Because my classmate, Geoffrey, good little Catholic kid he was, wouldn't let me use his blue crayon. Little fucking bitch!

    So I had to wait until, Kathy, the girl to my right, was finished coloring a picture of the pool in her backyard. By the time she was finished and gave me the blue crayon class was over. 

    Now going back to what we were talking about. If I were the kind of person to wish it on his worst enemy. Well, let's just say Geoffrey would need something very, very badly, and I would make sure he didn't get it. 

    That little fucking bitch!

    Perhaps it would be a night of sleep.

    As fate would have it Geoffrey and I live in the same neighborhood as adults. My teenage daughter sometimes babysits his youngest. If I were someone who wished things on his worst enemy, my plan would be very easy to execute.

    I would wait for a night when Geoffrey and his wife went out on their "date night" and help my daughter with baby sitting duties. Let's just say Geoffrey's son would have a homework assignment. And that homework assignment would involve coloring a page in a coloring book. I would allow him to color until he needed just one more crayon to finish. Then I would take that crayon and I would snap it in half. I would then spin an elaborate tale about how when a crayon is broken it means that the Devil can do whatever he wants in your house. Acting like a concerned guardian, a loving parental figure, I would  explain to him that his parents would be dead in the middle of the night thanks to Satan, being sure to tell him that it was all his fault. 

    Geoffrey would get a wonderful night of sleep after I planted that seed in his son's mind. I'm sure.

    Though, like I said, I would never.

    Never, ever, ever.

    Just not who I am.

    But if I were, I remember this one day in kindergarten, where my teacher, Mrs. Edwards, made us a snack of cream cheese and celery. I thought it was  the most delicious thing I had ever tasted. I ate them like a pig. An hour later, we were going over the alphabet, or some stupid shit, and I felt my stomach rumbling. I frantically raised my hand, waiting for Mrs. Edwards to call on me so that I could request to be excused and use the lavatory. 

    But nope. Mrs Edwards ignored me and allowed me no choice but to shit myself. All of my classmates noticed the putrid smell and started holding their noses and giggling. It was only then that my teacher decided to allow us to go to the rest room. 

    Oh Mrs. Edwards, if I were the kind of person to wish bad things on my enemies, which as I said, I'm definitely not. 

    Not me!

    But if I were, let's just say Mrs. Edwards would find herself tied up, naked, in a bathtub, with me above her, kindly forcing about twenty cream cheese and celery snacks down her throat, along with an entire box of laxatives. And just to be sure I got the desired results I craved, I would also drip half a bottle of Visine down her throat because I once read that if swallowed it produces uncontrollable diarrhea. 

    I would patiently wait by the bathtub, singing and dancing to the song Let it Go from the movie Frozen. "Come on, Mrs, Edwards," I would say. "Let it go, let it go, let me see you shit yourself  just for me."

    After a while she would, and I wouldn't leave the room until I was satisfied seeing the look of disgust and humiliation on her face as she bathed in her own feces.

    You must think I am a horrible person thinking these things.

    It's okay. I'm not. I am filled with kindness and love.

    I really am.

    But there was this old woman who lived across the street from me when I was a kid named Mrs. Thompson.

    She was a cunt. One of those miserable old bitches who lived to make innocent children's lives unhappy. Her favorite way to act like the asshole that she was involved peeking out her living room curtains while my friends and I were harmlessly playing a game of catch. Usually with a tennis ball. Sometimes a baseball. Or sometimes simply playing around with a basketball.

    She would wait for the moment the ball inadvertently landed in her yard, or even for it to brush a blade of grass around the perimeter of her yard. Then she would come smashing through the front door like Mr. Fucking Kool-Aid, run to grab the ball, and return to her house. She would lock her screen door and tell us we were bad kids that needed to stay off of her property.

    Now as I said before, I don't wish harm on my enemies. 

    I really don't.

    But if I did I would be sure to track Mrs. Thompson down. She'd probably be in some nursing home rotting away if she were still alive. I'd pay her a visit, and instead of bringing her flowers, or a box of chocolates, I would carry along a huge trash bag filled with an assortment of balls.

    I would first grab a lacrosse ball. Then I would stand over her and throw it as hard as I could at her face. Next would be the basketball. I would continue throwing it against her face, catching it as it bounced back, and throwing it again and again, watching it bounce back to me off of her nose, her eyes, her mouth, until she was sure to be black and blue. 

    Finally, I would unzip my pants and take out my own pair of balls, shove them in her toothless mouth, and then pinch her nose until she couldn't breathe. She would struggle, squirm, try to push me away. But it would be pointless, because I wouldn't leave until she stopped moving, and then I would smile to myself knowing she would be in Heaven and have all the balls she wanted.

       I would never do that, though. I could never treat an older person with such cruelty. You believe me, right?

    I know you do.

    Because I would never!

    You'll have to excuse me now. 

    Starting my car, fastening my seat belt, I turn the music on, and begin singing. "Let it go...Let it go!"

    Adjusting the rearview mirror I glance at the trash bag in the back seat and I look forward to playing ball tonight.

    I hope my right arm is as good as it was when I was a kid.

    

    

    

    

The Charley Horse and Erection Killer

 

    I hate wearing clothes!

    Being naked just feels better. And if you're in halfway decent shape it can be an extreme confidence booster. Let's face it, the average person looks like fucking shit with or without clothes, but when you see them naked, it's another story altogether.

    I've seen women with tits sagging down to their waist. Guys with balls hanging to their knees.

    And flab!

    Rolls and rolls of flab!

    Hideously disfigured folks that need to get their fat asses on a treadmill.

    I guess you could say I have high standards. But don't let that intimidate you. Every now and then I lower them. Usually to experience a perverted, hedonistic, situation that most people only ever see in porn. 

    You see, I have a tendency to escape life's never-ending problems, hardships, and misery via unsentimental sexual encounters. The more perverted the better. The only problems is I usually have to lower my standards when finding fellow perverts. Going back to not wearing clothes, I often find myself  at nudist resorts. Especially those with a swing lifestyle undercurrent.

    One weekend I stayed at such a place and met up with a couple while relaxing in the indoor hot tub. It was February and bitterly cold, so being submerged in hot water as the bubbles and jets relaxed my entire body felt like paradise.

    At first we talked about bullshit. The weather. The winter months that seemed endless, different nudist venues we had been to. Then around the thirty minute mark we began talking about the crazy things we had witnessed.

    The male half of the couple, who was drinking a fruit punch Gatorade with so much vodka in it I could smell it three feet away, said, "Oh man, one of the first lifestyle parties we ever attended there was this woman, smoking hot, who sucked off, like, an entire room of dudes. And then she said she wanted two cocks in her pussy and asked for volunteers."

    The woman next to him sat up, exposing her massive tits, previously hidden and blurred beneath the bubbling surface. "You should have seen his face! I had been involved in the lifestyle for years with my first husband, but Joe here was a virgin to all this. I knew he wanted to do it so I told him to go right ahead."

    And that is how the night began. We continued sharing experiences, fantasies, all the while drinking, losing whatever little inhibitions we had left. I had been at the resort all day and knew I wouldn't be leaving so I had popped a THC capsule and was feeling a complete full mind and body relaxation that the alcohol only enhanced.

    Even now I am not sure of the exact conversation that led us back to my cabin. But I knew where the night was headed, and I was elated. I had had an extremely stressful week at work and this was just the kind of escape I needed. The woman had me in her mouth, and told me to fuck her mouth hard. 

    So I did. Every now and then she would stop and place my cock in between her tits. They were massive, and even though they were saggy and older than I would have liked, the visual was a huge turn on. The dirtiness of it all. Like you were living in a porn movie.

    Her husband encouraged her. "Yeah, suck that fucking cock, you little slut!"

    "Mmmmhmmm," she mumbled as she pinched her nipples.

    "Can she suck a cock or what?" The dude knelt down behind her, kissed her neck, and started rubbing her clit with his right hand.

    All of this was extremely hot until that very moment. Because it was when he knelt down behind her that I caught a glimpse of something I find more disgusting than anything.

    An uncut cock.

    I am not sure how I hadn't noticed this while we were in the hot tub. I guess the bubbles and jets distorted views of our lower halves. 

    I wanted to puke. Very little repulses me more than a foreskin. Still, I didn't want to let it ruin the night. So I allowed her to continue sucking me off while he entered her from behind. That went on for, well, I'm not so sure because I was fading fast. The euphoric high I felt earlier was now turning into a sedated paralysis. 

    All I could think was I was going to lose my erection, and I really wanted to cum in this woman's mouth. In an effort to prolong the pleasure and excitement I took myself out of her mouth, grabbed her hands, and lifted her up, away from her husband, who's disgusting uncut cock popped out of her and stood at attention. I pushed her back onto the bed and went down on her, enjoying her moans and squirms, her back arching. 

    After a while I wanted nothing more than to fuck the shit out of her.

    I turned her around so that she was on all fours on the bed. She lifted her ass and I began fingering her pussy as she sucked the repulsive uncut cock. 

    "Fuck me!" She lifted her ass and I reached for the box of condoms I had left on the tv stand when I unpacked earlier that afternoon. As I began unrolling the condom down my shaft I moved on the bed so that I was closer. 

    And then it happened.

    A fucking charley horse in my left calf muscle.

    As someone who drinks excessively I am often dehydrated no matter how much water I drink throughout the day. The excruciating pain of a charley horse is the only time I curse myself for this behavior.

    It came blindingly, unbearably, out of nowhere, and I was literally paralyzed.

    I felt my teeth clenching as the pain intensified and lasted and lasted and lasted.

    The dude, noticing my face distorted in pain and mistaking it for extreme pleasure, suddenly stopped thrusting his disgusting uncut cock in his wife's mouth, grabbed her face with his hands, and said, "Look, he's about to cum! Grab his cock! Suck it!"

    She did. And she was so damn good that I did cum.

    All the while inwardly screaming, and outwardly moaning in pain.

    Pain that they thought was pleasure!

    She continued and I eventually finished.

    Afterwards I removed myself from the bed. I massaged my calf, and my teeth were still clenched so hard I thought I would break them.

    Then something even worse happened.

    The woman kissed her husband with my cum still in her mouth.

    "I told you I would feed you tonight," she said.

    They laughed and kissed. He swallowed.

    And I remember thinking to myself, if I don't erase this from my memory I may never be able to get an erection again.

    Once again, a night that held promise had ended in a most unsatisfying way.

    I thought of a line in an old song by The Cure.

    How the end always is.

    Yep, every good thing in my life usually ends in such a manner.

    Crushingly disappointing, and soul crushing.

    How the end always is.

 

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

    

Welcome to This Shit May Be True

    Welcome to my fucked up world.

    I am from somewhere.

    My name is something.

    I do some job for a living.

    But guess what? You will never know where that place is, what name I go by, or what job I do. I am simply here to escape, laugh, whine, scream and rage, and hopefully I take you along for what is sure to be a crazy, eccentric, sometimes shocking, sometimes immoral, and often depraved adventure.

    And since people often assume what a writer writes - no matter how fucking out there it is - is autobiographical, I decided to name this blog This Shit May Be True.

    Some of it may be.

    Although I will never reveal what is.

    So, how about we begin this journey?