The Corruption of Innocence

Copyright © 2007 by Lotus Rose

CONTENTS

O, shall I be like the lotus,

BOOK I

Innocence

O, tender child of wide-eyed wonder,

Daddy’s Secret

Mary’s Adventures Through the Looking Glass

Family

Babysitting Alicia

The Princess and the Pretty Boi

The Murder of Hoppy Bunny

Beauty Blinds the Eyes

Return to the Womb

BOOK II

The Corruption of Innocence

O, see what before your eye grows,

Parts

Fat Sucker

The Eyes of the Adoring

Review of Bad Boi Pretty’s Not Plain Like You

The Girl Behind the Iron Chastity Belt

Skinny-Dipping in the Abyss

The Worst Christmas Ever

Tyria

Lyrics to Bad Boi Pretty’s “Bush Fire”

Plants

BOOK III

The Return to Innocence

O, young one, do you now feel lust,

Touching Souls

My Favorite Threesome

The Girl Next Door

The Cleanest Part of Mary

Nothing Good Ever Happens to Tina

Autumn

Nipples On Mannequins

As Pure as the Driven Snow

The Garden of Delights

O, shall I be like the lotus,

And bring you dark dreams and soft sighs?

Or shall I be like the rose is,

Sweet-scented and tempting your eyes?

For the unending sleep can seduce you,

To the world behind unseeing eyes.

And the beauty that beckons, then cuts you,

Is also the cruelest of lies.

BOOK I

Innocence

O, tender child of wide-eyed wonder,

With untouched rose not yet torn asunder.

You’re born flat-chested, small, and hairless,

You’re innocent, naive, meek, and careless.

And the adult’s knowledge for which you yearn,

Is something that they forbid you to learn,

Allowing you only the childhood cares

Of innocent games and teddy bears.

But still the secret garden grows,

The lotus, the violet, and the rose,

With tender buds hidden from sight,

Lest they be crushed by adults’ might.

And at night upon your virgin bed,

The lotus dreams run through your head,

And beckon you with gentle eyes,

To a world of tenderness and sighs.

You grab the teddy, you hold it tight,

Your innocent body trembles in fright,

And you promise that you will never give in

To the adult’s world of corruption and sin.

But nestling there in the back of your mind,

Is a curiosity, and a pleasure of a kind

Like the lotus’s all-engulfing rush,

As you feel yourself shudder at the rose’s first blush.

Chapter 1

Daddy’s Secret

Daddy had been wearing a hat for about a week, and Mary didn’t know why.

Every time she’d asked, he had smiled and said, “My little secret.”

So when she saw him lying on the couch, taking a nap, she wondered if she could remove it without waking him.

Daddy took a lot of naps lately, but she always left him alone. There were a lot of things that little girls were just not supposed to know.

But she really really wanted to know.

She thought that if she was real quiet and real careful, she could look without waking him.

She tested him. “Daddy?” she asked, but he didn’t reply.

She held her teddy bear tight in her arm—it made her feel safe.

She crept as quietly as she could on tippy-toes and peered at his face, but nothing on it moved. Daddy had a handsome face, she thought.

It didn’t look like he was going to wake up, so slowly, slowly, she brought her hands to the brim of the cap and slowly, slowly, she started to pull it off.…

She looked.

The top of Daddy’s head was caved in—punched in, like with a fist, a jumbled mass of hair and jagged bone, of rotten flesh shriveled and torn.

Before she could scream, Daddy opened his eyes and grinned and said, “So what do you think?”

“You’re hurt, Daddy,” she said, the tears starting now.

“I’m not Daddy,” he replied, smiling like Daddy never did, smiling in a bad way.

“Daddy, you’re scaring me.”

“I said I’m not Daddy,” he said, sitting up. He looked mean.

Mary was starting to get really really scared now. “Stop,” she whimpered.

“I’m glad you finally looked. You have to look before I can reveal myself.” Mary was shaking her head slightly. She didn’t understand. Daddy put on his stern voice. “I must say, honey, that I was getting a little tired of waiting, but I’m glad I did; that expression on your face right now is precious.” He pinched her cheek. “Quite worth pretending to sleep all those times.”

Mary couldn’t speak.

Daddy’s smile widened. “Remember that night when you were scared of the monster under the bed and you asked me to come in and look under it to make sure he wasn’t there?”

Mary nodded stiffly. She was so scared. She held her teddy tightly to her chest.

“Remember when I bumped my head?” Daddy asked.

Mary nodded again. It sent tears rolling down her cheek and dripping onto the top of her teddy’s head.

Daddy grinned, looking her over.

He brought his hand up and pointed to his head. “I’m the monster under the bed.”

“Daddy don’t,” she whispered, still not wanting to believe.

“I’m not Daddy,” he replied as he began to run his hand through her hair.

She looked up into his eyes.

“Are you going to hurt me?”

He shook his head. “Of course not. I love you. I only wanted to be closer to you. You have such beautiful violet-colored hair.…”

Mary smiled timidly.

“Every night I could taste your dreams. You were calling to me.… You’re my little princess. You’re my little angel. Now give Daddy a hug.”

Chapter 2

Mary’s Adventures Through the Looking Glass

“Hrrmpph!” Mary exclaimed, then pouted in the mirror. “I wish I could grow up faster,” she mumbled to herself.

There would be no more curfews, no more stupid rules, no more dumb bois acting like dumb bois.

And, Mary thought, she would be so beautiful and grown-up, like other grown-up girls.

Of course, her little-girl body was nice for so many things. She was taller than a lot of bois, and she could run faster than a lot of them too. But she wasn’t as pretty as a grown-up girl, because she didn’t have certain … things.

She wished she could be as pretty as Tyria. Tyria was definitely the most beautiful supermodel in the entire world.

But how could she ever be as pretty as Tyria? She pouted.

She turned and looked at her bottom. It was flat. She wished she could have a big booty to make all the bois’ heads turn. She turned and looked at her chest. It was flat. There were no double D’s, only negative A’s. She pouted.

But she had beautiful violet hair. Some of the other girls made fun of her for it, but she knew they were just jealous because she was different and got attention. She shook her hair in the mirror in the supermodel way, the way Tyria did. She pouted like a supermodel.

Then as she looked in the mirror some more, it suddenly became kind of shimmery, kind of like water, and over her face, it was like there was another pair of eyes. A boi’s. A boi with pretty pretty green eyes. They were so pretty her jaw dropped. And that’s all there was. They were eyes without a face.

Then the boi said, “Dreams and lies reside in your eyes. If you try to see them, I won’t ask you why.”

“That’s dumb,” she said, and scowled.

But even though the boi seemed like he was about to say something, he didn’t, but merely disappeared.

Then she exclaimed, “Heyyoucomeback! Do you live in the mirror or something?”

“Who me?”

“Yes, you.” She rolled her eyes.

“Yep,” is all he said, and for a moment she was mesmerized by his eyes again.

“You have beautiful eyes,” she said matter-of-factly, and indeed he did.

He had eyes like the wind, softly caressing your face. He had eyes like super-sized marshmallows, holding your body above the clouds.

She scrunched up her face and studied the boi-who-was-just-eyes for a moment. “Do you live in that mirror?” she asked him.

“Sometimes,” he replied.

Now Mary was trying very hard to be polite, despite the fact that the eye-boi had dropped in without an invitation and without a warning. “So how do you like it in the mirror?” she asked.

“I like it fine, except for the fact that sometimes things can seem a little backwards, but is that so much worse than the way things really are?”

“Backwards?”

“Surely you know how in a mirror, left is right and text is backwards?”

“Harummph! My name is Marrrryyyy!” She rolled her eyes. “Not Shirrrlleyy.” She giggled.

Now the boi-who-was-just-eyes rolled his eyes, which was quite a sight to see, seeing as how he was just eyes, after all. “Ah ha ha. Very funny.”

“And what is your name?” she asked him.

“Oh, nevermind that. Why don’t you come into the mirror? There are many adventures to be had, once you come inside.…”

“Maybe I will, but wait.…”

“Yes?”

Now Mary was still a little girl after all, and sometimes, things she wanted to say were very hard to say, indeed. But she tried. “I saw a thing, about, in the mirror. With a word backwards.…” She looked frustrated in trying to make her meaning clear.

“What are you talking about, Mary?”

“Red rum,” she said.

The boi-who-was-just-eyes arched a brow.

“Come on, I will show you.” She grabbed her sketch pad off the floor, and her charcoal pencil, and on the paper, she wrote:

REDRUM

She held it up for the boi-who-was-just-eyes to see.

He looked. “Why, it says MURDER!” He arched his brow. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

Mary just giggled. “It did work!” She looked mightily pleased.

The boi-who-was-just-eyes looked relieved. “Oh, I see now. You had written ‘Redrum.’ Well let me ask you a question: do you know a Tina?”

Mary scrunched up her face and thought. “Hmmm, ummmm, yeahhh, I know a Tina in my school but we’re not very close … why?”

“Oh, just curious. Why don’t you write this one down, ‘Tina, love you a ton,’ except spell it like this:

TINA, LUV U A TON

Mary wrote it down underneath the word, REDRUM, and stood staring at it.

The boi said, “Now, hold it up to the mirror and read it.…”

Mary held it up. In the mirror the letters turned backward and she struggled for a moment to read, sounding out the letters.… “Not a u vul anit … not a uvula nit!” She giggled. Then she giggled some more, so much that she had a hard time standing and holding the pencil and paper and giggling at the same time. “That’s soooooooo funny! And I know what a uvula is, too!” and she pointed at hers.

The boi laughed

She smirked. “But I don’t love Tina a ton. She’s too weird.”

“Picky picky,” said the boi.

She pouted. “Though I wish I could love someone. What I want most in the whole wide world is love.” Her pout grew more severe.

“Give it time,” the boi said gently.

The boi curiously eyed her shirt.

“What?” said Mary. “You like my snow lemon shirt? It’s the best brand, definitely. They’re really expensive, but my daddy buys them for me because he loves me.” She looked down at her chest. The front of her shirt was boldly emblazoned with the brand name,

SNOLEMON

The boi seemed embarrassed, going, “Hmmm.…” as if he wanted to say something, but was too embarrassed. “That’s not what it says to me.…”

But Mary had started babbling and was getting quite carried away explaining all about her favorite name brand. “Wanna know why they call it snow lemon?” She babbled on, “Wanna know why for? I’ll tell you why.…”—the boi said, “but”—“.… well they’re clothes for the winter. Have you seen the commercials? …”—the boi said, “that’s”—“.… Well anyway, you might not have seen the commercials if you spend all your time in the mirror. But anyway, you didn’t say if you’d seen the commercial.…”—the boi said, “I”—“.… Well, I’ll tell you how the commercials go. They go, ‘When the world hands you lemons, you make yellow snow.’ Then the girl in the commercial squeezes the lemon into a snow cone … get it? Yellow snow. Isn’t that so very funny?”—the boi stammered, “Yes.”

“Yes, what? Don’t you have anything to add to the conversation?”

“But that’s not what it says to me.…”

“Hmm?” and she pouted cutely in confusion.

“Nevermind. Hey now, I have another phrase. Look at this one in the mirror: NO PARTS LIVE ON, oooh and try this one, SKIRT PIN.”

Mary merely pouted and went, “Puhhhhhh. I’m tired of this game. You said I could come into the mirror with you?”

“Yes, normally you wouldn’t be able to, because there is a line in the mirror, but the lines are blurring. The distinction between dreams and reality are becoming less clear.”

“Oh? Is that so? Well I’m really curious as to what goes on in there. Can I jump in?”

“Definitely.”

So, Mary stood up, straight and tall, and pretended to be a high diver. Slowly she drew her hands up. She shifted up and down on her tippy toes. “Here I go,” she said, then she jumped, up, curling into a ball, tumbling over and over and slammed into the mirror.

Then, whump, she landed on her feet. She looked around, and saw, sprawling before her

~*the lettuce-green road*~

She turned her head to the right, and there, floating in the air, was the boi-who-was-just-eyes, and he was still just a pair of green eyes.

“Hello,” she said, and grinned.

“Hiya,” he replied back.

She scrunched her mouth up, looking at the long road before her, made entirely of green lettuce leaves, the road went on and on and disappeared underneath the blue and cloudy sky. “What’s the deal?” she blurted out.

“I have a secret.”

“Oh, I like sharing secrets. Wanna know one of mine? I’ve seen a naked boi before.…”

“Well, er, my secret is that I brought you in here because the looking-glass world needs your help.”

“It does? But how would I help? I’m just a little girl.”

“But you’re a special girl. You’re Mary. You have violet hair.”

Mary nodded slowly but she didn’t really understand. “Ohhhhhhh.…”

“Just believe me. You’re special.”

“Ohhhhh. Okay.”

“It’s just that, you see, the Queen has stolen all the flowers of innocence, and only you can recover them, because well, you’re innocent.”

“I am?” She looked up at the boi with big, innocent eyes.

He stared back into her eyes and she started to feel tingly all over. He had such pretty eyes. “Your eyes are brown,” he said.

“Yes, they are. Big and brown.” And she batted her eyes so cutely.

“Well, if they were violet, they would match your hair.…”

Mary thought about that for a moment. “Hey, ya!”

“Well, if you’d like, if you help us, I can turn your eyes violet.”

“I’d really like that! So the Queen stole the flowers?”

“Yes.”

“And they don’t belong to her. Are the people sad?”

“Yes, they miss their flowers.”

“Well why did she do something so mean like that?”

“Well, see the Queen was jealous because the blush was no longer on her rose, so she didn’t want anyone else to enjoy their flowers and so she engaged in a massive deflowering of the kingdom.”

Mary pouted while she thought that over. “Ohhh, well, okay. I will help you, then. That sort of behavior is unacceptable.” She nodded.

“That’s greatly appreciated. And I think you will be successful, too.”

Then on her right side, a sad man’s voice chimed in, “I hope so.”

Now Mary had no idea that anyone else was listening in on her conversation, so she turned her head to the right to see who was speaking. Instinctively, she raised her head to look up, because the voice had been an adult voice and adults were almost always taller than her.

But all she saw were clouds.

The voiced sighed miserably. “No, down here.”

She looked down, and there, resting on the ground on the edge of the lettuce-green road, was a decapitated head.

Her eyes went big and she drew back. “Oh!” she exclaimed. Underneath her feet, lettuce leaves made crunching noises.

The head’s eyes went big as well in response, and no doubt, if he had a body, he would have drawn back as well. “I’m sorry to have startled you, giantess,” said the head.

“Giantess.” Her eyes rolled up and she squinted one eye as she thought about that. “Oh, you mean a female giant. Oh, well I’m not a female giant, you see. I’m just a little girl.”

The head arched its brow as if in disbelief. “Well, whoever you are, I hope you get that stupid Queen.” And he sighed miserably. “By the way, have you seen my head? She decapitated me and I lost my head.…”

Now Mary definitely felt bad for the poor guy and certainly didn’t want to hurt his feelings. She looked at the eye-boi for some help, but he wasn’t any. She sat thinking for a moment, trying to think exactly how to tell him. “Errrrrr … well you see.…”

“Yes?”

“You haven’t lost your head.…”

The head rolled his eyes around. “But I don’t see it anywhere.”

“No, you’ve lost your body. Why, when I look at you, all I see is your head.”

The head thought for a moment. “Interesting.”

Mary’s face suddenly lit up as she was struck with a brilliant idea. “Why I’ll bet you that if you cross your eyes, you’ll be able to see your nose! That ought to prove it to you!”

“How much do you want to bet?”

“It was just a figure of speech!”

The head smirked. “So you’re backing out?”

Now Mary was embarrassed, because she certainly didn’t enjoy leading people on. Her chin lowered and she pouted. “No, um, how about a quarter?”

The head thought for a moment. “Well, that’s problematic, because, if it’s true that I have lost my body, well then all my money is on my body. I’m afraid I must renege on our bet.”

Mary looked flustered. “Um, er, okay.”

“I’m sorry. Normally I would have thought things through much better. Two heads are better than one after all.…”

Mary was confused, but she nodded. Her philosophy was, if you don’t understand something, it’s best to just nod.

Mary crossed her arms, tapped her feet impatiently and gave the head a look. “So are you gonna do it or what?”

The head’s eyes merely stared blankly into space.

Mary stared at the head and made a face of annoyance. “Hey now.…” she said.

The head merely stared blankly ahead and the eyes looked a little glazed.

“Hey! … Now!” She tapped the head lightly with her foot.

She noticed that when she tapped him in the eye, he didn’t even blink.

“Hey! I’m talking to you!” Then she picked the head up and started shaking it.

The head started screaming. “Ahhhhhh!!! Why?”

“You stopped talking.”

“Oh. Sorry. I suffered a lot of blood loss when I was beheaded. I zone out sometimes.”

“So you gonna do it or what?”

“Oh, yeah. Here I go.” And the head crossed his eyes.

It looked pretty funny, which made Mary giggle.

The head said, “Well whaddya know! It’s my nose!”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Yes, just like I said.”

“Ah, so you were right. So what are you up to?”

“Well, I’m going to follow the lettuce-green road until I get to the Garden of Innocence, then I’m gonna help the kingdom get their flowers back, right?” She looked at the boi-who-was-just-eyes.

“Right,” he said.

The decapitated head said, “Can you take me too? I’d like to have a word with that Queen, and maybe I can find my body and my girlfriend somewhere.”

“Um, okay, I’ll take you. I’m sorry you got beheaded, by the way.”

“It’s okay, it wasn’t your fault.”

Then suddenly, to her left a female voice said, “Hey, can I come too?”

Mary turned her head to look, but this time, she decided to look down, instead of up.

There, outside the edge of the lettuce-green road, was a head of lettuce.

“Hello, head of lettuce.”

“Hello, little girl. Can I go with you to the Garden of Innocence?”

“Um, I guess I can carry you in my other hand. How come you didn’t say anything before, though?”

“Well, I didn’t realize I could talk before,” the head of lettuce said as Mary picked it up, and the decapitated head chimed in, “Two! Two heads are better than one!”

Then Mary exclaimed, “Ewwwww! Head of lettuce, you’re all wet!”

The head of lettuce seemed embarrassed when it replied, “I’m sorry. I’m a little excitable, and err, it just happens.”

And Mary was going, “Phwaaa! Wet wet wet!”

She tried to jostle the lettuce dry. She shook it.

Shake.

Shake.

Shake shake twisty twisty.

She nodded. “Better. Now come on you two, let’s go. I’m eager to get on with my adventures!”

And she started hopping and skipping down the lettuce-green road, as all kinds of crunching noises went on underneath her shoes and, even though she knew it was kind of dumb and childish, she was actually singing, “Tra la la. Tra la la la.”

The head of lettuce and the decapitated head even joined in, but the boi-who-was-just-eyes merely arched his brow.

And Mary swung her arms wide as the head of lettuce flicked dew and the decapitated head dripped blood.

“Tra la la la. Tra la la!”

And after a while of doing this, she found she had come upon

~*a cucumber and two melons*~

Her tra la la’ing was interrupted by her coming upon a cucumber and two melons lying in her path on the lettuce-green road.

“Whoa!” she exclaimed.

The cucumber said to her in a male voice, “Hey little girl.”

In stereo of a female voice, the melons said, “Hello young lady.” They sounded really sad and about to break down into tears.

“Hello cucumber and melons,” said Mary.

“How’s it going?” said the decapitated head.

“Hiya,” said the boi-who-was-just-eyes.

“Hey,” said the head of lettuce.

There was an awkward silence.

“Well,” Mary said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m on my way to the Garden of Innocence to return the stolen flowers to the kingdom.…”

“Phooey,” said the cucumber.

The melons started to cry.

“What’s the deal?” said Mary.

The cucumber said, “Well, we aren’t allowed in the Garden of Innocence. The Queen kicked us out.”

The melons bawled out loudly and went, “Uh huh, uh huh.”

“Kicked out? Why did she do that?” Mary asked. She pouted a little because she was starting to feel sorry for the poor melons.

The melons said, “Me and my twin sister aren’t as pretty and sweet-smelling as the flowers, so we aren’t allowed in the Garden of Innocence.” And then the melons commenced crying again.

“Yeah,” said the cucumber, “I hope she takes those flowers and sticks them up her—”

“Well!” exclaimed Mary. “That’s very discriminatory! The Queen doesn’t sound very nice at all!”

“Yeah, I got kicked out of the garden too,” said the head of lettuce.

“And she beheaded me,” said the decapitated head.

The melons were still crying, so, Mary asked them, “Are you okay?”

“We’re so sad,” said the melons. “We just want to be held.”

The cucumber shouted, “Will you quit your incessant crying? I don’t need to be held. I need a nice, warm—”

“Hey cucumber! Please don’t be so rude!” shouted Mary.

The head of lettuce said, “Hey, cucumber, you’re a real bad boi, aren’t you? You got a girlfriend?”

Mary said, “I wish I could hold you, melons, but my hands are full right now.”

Cucumber said, “Little girl, you gotta sneak us into the Garden of Innocence.”

Now Mary felt confident that she had quite a legitimate excuse. “I’m sorry, but my hands are full, and I can’t carry you all.”

“Don’t you have pockets?” asked the cucumber.

“Actually, no, my pants don’t have any pockets … and I’d have to take the melons too. They seem so sad. I can’t just leave them.”

Then Mary looked lost in thought.

The cucumber angrily exclaimed, “Well, you can take that excuse and stick it up your—”

Mary half-mumbled, “I suppose I could stick the melons under my shirt and carry them that way.…”

“And,” the cucumber eagerly said, “you can carry me in the front of your pants, since you don’t have pockets. Come on, you gotta sneak us in.”

Mary huffed in indignation. “Sneak you in? Cucumber, you seem quite rude. I think you’re just a bad boi. Why should I take you to the garden?”

“Because I love you,” said the cucumber, and he sounded quite sincere.

“Hey!” shouted the head of lettuce, turning green with envy.

“You’re just saying that to get into my pants,” Mary said.

“That’s not true, baby.”

“Don’t toy with me, cucumber. Because what I want most in the whole wide world, is love. Don’t break my heart.”

“But honestly, I’m in love with you,” said the cucumber.

“Hmmm,” said Mary, “What do you think, eye-boi? Is he telling the truth?”

“Lying,” said the eyes.

“Decapitated head? Is he lying?”

The head had zoned out again, so it didn’t say anything.

“Lettuce?”

“He doesn’t love you! He loves me! You stay away from my man!”

“Melons?”

The melons only started crying. “We’ve been … together. But all he told was lies.”

She looked at the cucumber with an accusing glare.

“Okay, so I admit it. I don’t really believe in love. I’m just a bad boi. But hey, that doesn’t mean we can’t all just have some fun … together. Whaddya say, baby? Hey, I feel like reciting a poem.…”

And the cucumber started reciting this poem:

the salad tossing ballad

Oh, how shall I win and woo you?

With a sappy, gentle love ballad?

With whispers of roses and dew?

Well, something more useful is salad.

Can words or can love cure your hunger?

Can you get nutrition from a ballad?

We’re lettuce, melon and cucumber.

Forget love and just toss a salad.

Love will hurt and sting you.

And the heart is tricked by a ballad.

But veggies will never betray you.

Forget love and just toss a salad.

Mary’s eyes were looking mightily wet and she blinked rapidly with the overwhelming emotion. “My, that was a beautiful poem, cucumber! Now I want to toss a salad!”

“Well, stick with me, baby,” said the cucumber.

“You know what, cucumber? I think I will take you guys. I think you’re not such the bad boi you pretend to be, and besides, you’re just a cucumber. How could you possibly hurt me?”

So Mary set the head of lettuce and the decapitated head down for a moment. Then she stuck the cucumber down the front of her pants. Then she stuck the two melons underneath her shirt and tied her shirt to hold them in place on her chest. Then she kneeled and picked up the two heads again.

And she continued on down the lettuce-green road, singing, “tra la la, tra la la.” And the two heads, and the cucumber and the melons sang along as the eye-boi watched.

And after a while, she found she had come upon

~*the lonely siamese twin*~

“Oh!” Mary exclaimed. For, there standing in front of her on the road was a very very lonely looking siamese twin, with four legs, and two arms—the two bodies were connected side by side through the chest—and on the shoulders was a very sad looking female head … and a stump of a neck.

The decapitated head exclaimed, “Jamie!”

And the female siamese twin exclaimed back, “Jamie!”

“We missed each other sooooooooo much!” they both said.

The cucumber sarcastically said, “I take it, you two know each other?”

“Yes,” said Jamie. “We loved each other so much, that we sewed ourselves together!”

The melons said, “I can’t see! I can’t see!”

“I want to get back together with you,” Jamie said to Jamie, then Jamie pulled out a needle and thread.

Then Jamie looked at Mary and said, “You see how wonderful love is? See how wonderful it is to be so connected with another person, that you can’t stand to be apart? Ah, love, glorious love!”

Then Jamie started dancing and both heads began singing this song:

the siamese twins song

Don’t need a cucumber to fill the hole, hole

In your heart that you have cuz of no love

for your soul, soul.

Come on now and join in the fun!

Two heads, two heads are better than one, one!

And lettuce leaves, lettuce leaves,

so nice and wet, wet

Cannot replace that love feeling you get, get.

Come on now, shake that lettuce with speed!

Lettuce heads, lettuce heads ain’t

what you need, need!

Don’t be a melonhead! Come on, let’s go!

Get your thread and needle and learn to sew, sew!

Cuz this fear of love has got to go, go!

Two heads, two heads are better, you know, know!

Mary had been gleefully swaying her head as she listened to the song. “Yayyyy! What a lovely song!”

“Hrmmpph,” said the cucumber. “Derivative.”

The melons said, “I’m not sure if I like it or not.”

The head of lettuce said, “I don’t get it.”

The eye-boi merely watched.

“Now tell me, little girl, can you sew?” said Jamie.

“Hmmm.…” Mary thought for a moment. “So-so.”

“What?”

“So-so.”

“Ohhhhh, you mean you sew so-so.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.” She rolled her eyes.

“Well, would you mind sewing us back together. We’d really appreciate it.”

“So you want me to sew, even though I only sew so-so?”

“Yes, please. We can always fix any mistakes later.”

“Okay,” said Mary, and she sewed the decapitated head back onto the stump of a neck.

The formerly-decapitated head grinned, then the heads turned and kissed. “Back together again!” they exclaimed.

It was such a beautiful sight, that Mary very nearly cried, but the trembling tear in her eye merely trembled without falling. “Come on!” she said, “We still have to get to the Garden of Innocence and get the kingdom’s flowers back!”

After a while of walking, they all came upon

~*the briarbush of rose thorns*~

Everyone gasped, for blocking their way on the lettuce-green road was a large mass of green vines with thorns. The mass shifted and writhed like snakes.

And in front of this mass was a wooden sign, pounded into the ground.

Mary stooped to read, because there were some words written on the sign:

The crown of our life as it closes,

Is darkness, the fruit thereof dust.

No thorns go as deep as a rose’s.

And love is more cruel than lust.

—Algernon Swinburne

She straightened up. “Hmmm. What’s the deal here?”

The boi-who-was-just-eyes said, “They are the thorns of the roses in the Garden of Innocence. The Queen had them removed and put here to block the entrance.”

Mary pouted. “So our adventure is over?”

“No. That’s why you’re here. Only those who are most innocent can go through the briarbush.”

Mary thought for a moment. “You mean there is something other than innocence?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” She screwed up her mouth. “Well, what is it?”

“Knowledge.”

“Knowledge of what?”

At this point, the siamese twins interrupted. “Well, the little girl is innocent, but how would we get through?”

“Well if you touch her while she goes through, her innocence will protect you. And I, myself, can’t be harmed. I’m just a pair of floating eyes.”

“Well what are we waiting for?” said Mary. “I feel like I’ve been walking forever to see this Garden of Innocence, so take my hand, siamese twins, and let’s go!”

“It’s about time,” muttered the cucumber.

“I can’t see!” said the melons.

The head of lettuce said, “Ooh. I hope those thorns don’t shred me.”

The twins took Mary’s hand and with a look of utter determination, Mary led the way, holding one hand defiantly in front of her.

And what happened next was a magical thing, for the vines parted to let her through. The creaky noises they made were scary and they still writhed like snakes, but they did not touch her.

But then Mary exclaimed, “Ow!” and her shirt made a ripping sound. One of the thorns had cut her arm. “Hey!” There were more shredding noises as more thorns cut and shred her clothes and scraped her skin. And everyone else started exclaiming in pain as well, except for the eye-boi that is.

“Guess you’re not so innocent after all,” said the cucumber.

“Hurry!” said the eye-boi. “They’re only flesh wounds. Her innocence is protecting you, but you must hurry!”

“You don’t have to tell us twice,” said Jamie, then the siamese twins picked Mary up in their arms and started running.

“Ouch! Owwww!!! AHH!!” they all exclaimed, and then suddenly they found they had made it through and were now standing in

~*The Garden of Innocence*~

The siamese twins set her down. Mary dropped the head of lettuce because it was shredded and dead, then her jaw dropped as she gazed out at the most glorious spectacle she had ever seen her entire life.

Then she exclaimed, “Oh!” and her head snapped down on her body and she grabbed the melons, because her clothes had been ripped and torn and the melons were almost falling out of her shirt. She also had to shift her position of standing into some weird-looking one, because she was also having a hard time keeping the cucumber in her pants.

Then she looked out again at the glorious sight before her, and went “Ooooohhhh!”

It was like a garden of eternal Spring, filled with flowers freshly budded and with new blossoms, with thornless rose bushes, brilliant red, fragrant flowers of glorious colors and there even ran a gentle stream, clear as crystal, and all about, a hundred naked nymphs were dancing and playing and swimming in delight, their giggling filling the air, as, on a throne, sat the Queen, holding in her hand a 40 ounce bottle marked, “nectar,” and by her side stood a masked executioner with an axe in his hand.

The Queen sat and looked about with an amused and somewhat inebriated expression. Then she noticed Mary and everyone else.

She turned crimson with fury, and pointing at them, shouted, “Intruders! How dare you come into my garden. And how dare you bring those twins and lettuce, and of all things a cucumber into the Garden of Innocence! It’s a travesty!”

Then she turned to the executioner at her side and exclaimed, “Off with their heads!” The executioner started walking towards them. All the nymphs stopped frolicking and gasped and watched.

The siamese twins shook their heads, “Oh, no! Not again!”

The boi-who-was-just-eyes said, “Mary, you must use your power of innocence to fight them. Hurry, you must think only innocent thoughts!”

“Uh, okay,” said Mary.

The Queen turned even redder, and pointing at the boi-who-was-just-eyes, shouted, “OFF WITH HIS HEAD!”

Mary rolled her eyes and said, “He has no head. He’s all eyes.”

The Queen scowled and said, “I hate guys who are all eyes.”

“It’s better than guys who are all hands.”

“Perhaps. But they can’t be beheaded either.”

“And my daddy told me there are some guys who have their heads in their—”

“Innocent thoughts!” exclaimed eye-boi.

“Oh, right,” said Mary, and she closed her eyes and thought hard about playing with puppies. She thought about petting puppies and warm puppy breath.…

“It’s working!” exclaimed the eye-boi,

as the Queen groaned and said, “I don’t feel so good. I gotta get out of here.”

.… and Mary thought about playing catch with puppies and wrestling with puppies.…

as she heard the Queen shriek and say, “I can’t stand it anymore! I have to get out of here! Everyone can have their flowers back, but I’m taking this rose. It still has its blush on it.”

.… then Mary started thinking about the video her brother (who wanted to be a frat-boi someday) had shown her once, and what the lady had been doing with the dog.…

“Oh no!” exclaimed the siamese twins, “It’s not working!”

Mary’s eyes popped open and she watched as the executioner advanced.

Mary stuck her hand underneath her shirt. “Well, fuck this bullshit.…” And she pulled out a screaming melon and threw it at the Queen. It smashed right into the Queen’s face and she slumped in her throne. Mary stuck her hand underneath her shirt again and threw the other sobbing and screaming melon, which smashed into the Queen’s bloody, mashed face. Then Mary ran and snatched the axe out of the executioner’s hand, and ran over to the Queen and with one swing, chopped through her neck and beheaded her.

She picked up the Queen’s head by the hair and held it up and proclaimed, “Behold! The Queen is dead!”

There was a moment of silence, then everyone cheered and started dancing. Even the executioner was dancing with a couple of nymphs.

“Congratulations,” said the eye-boi. “You’ve saved the kingdom. Now everyone can get their flowers back!”

“Thank you,” Mary replied, then she turned to watch the siamese twins kissing and hugging. She pouted. “They are so in love. I wish I could find love.”

“Love, phooey,” said the cucumber, who had dropped onto the ground at some point.

The eye-boi looked deeply into Mary’s eyes, and she felt a shudder go through her body. He said, “You may not know this, but I love you already. I always have and always will. There is a love that comes in the night, in your dreams. I will always be with you. Know that you always have love.”

And then he stared into her eyes, and she knew what he said was true. Then everything started getting shimmery, then dark.

And when she looked around again, she realized she was in her room again, lying in her bed.

Had it all been a dream? She reached over and turned the lamp on.

She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the light. She got up and looked in the mirror.

She looked into her beautiful, sparkling violet eyes.

She noticed her sketch pad lying on the floor by her pencil. She bent and picked them up. On the sketch pad were the words REDRUM and underneath that, TINA, LUV U A TON.

She smiled softly, thinking about all that had happened.

Then, underneath those words she wrote the words,

I HAV LUV

Chapter 3

Family

This family.

This family.

We all need each other. All connected by our symbolic umbilical cords.

And intertwined.

We all need each other, but I don’t know why.

FATHER

Whenever I see my Dad lately, I see a very small child in a man’s body.…

As usual at this time of the day, he’s sitting in front of the TV when I walk in. He turns and glares at me. “Look at you. You look like an idiot.”

“Yeah, I just want to go to my room.”

“Why don’t you change into a nice shirt? Do you think I enjoy having a son who’s a freak?”

“I hope not.” I know it’s escalating, but I feel the anger surging up inside of me.

“Yeah, you got a real smart mouth on you, but do you really think people are impressed with all that crap? You’re nothing but a loser, and you’ll probably always be a loser. You better straighten yourself out, or you’re gonna end up just like Paula, and the way you are now, nobody would miss you. I know I wouldn’t.”

I don’t need this. Not now. Paula just died. I don’t need this.

I want to tell him to leave Paula alone, but I know if I talk, my voice will tremble.

I’m sorry, Paula.

I feel myself shaking, try to stop. He’s glaring at me—starting another one of his staring matches. I try to stare back, but I feel my eyes welling up. I look to the glass container above the fireplace.

The fetus twitches inside the murky, brown water.

I look back into my father’s eyes, as if to say, “she’s listening.”

But he doesn’t back down. “When the baby comes, I hope she’s not as much trouble as you have been to me. You’ve never been anything to me but trouble.”

I start to walk away. I know what’s coming. Like the little kid getting his last potshot in, he says, “You’re an embarrassment.”

I walk, as calmly as I can, out of the living room, to my room. Close the door.

And you, Father, are a failure.

All you’ve managed to do is reproduce. You brought people into this world who hate you. You created people to destroy.

You try so hard to prove you’re strong. But I’ve been watching you—all the mistakes, the slipped comments, all the words and actions you didn’t realize were so revealing.… I’ve been collecting them and putting them all together. And now I can see all the weaknesses you try to hide.

Yeah, when I see my dad lately, I see a child.

Some people progress, and grow up, and some people stay in the same place, I guess.

Mother

Plumes of smoke. That’s what my Mom is about.

And a glass of red wine dangling in her hand.

I try to slip by, but she calls out to me.

I stand and wait. Whenever my mom is about to speak, I always expect either a criticism, an insult, or an order.

She sits and stares at the glass container on the mantelpiece—as she usually does, late at night. The fetus, Alicia, has been growing in that brown water for eight months, since the day we all had our blood drawn for cells to combine with one of Mom’s eggs. I often wonder if she thinks of Alicia as hers as she stares at her, because, really, she’s made up of parts of all of us.

Finally, she speaks: “Paula’s Mom called today. She thinks you killed her. She says you started her on drinking and doing drugs.”

I feel the anger rise up inside of me. “I tried to keep her from doing drugs.”

“Paula’s mom doesn’t think so. She wouldn’t stop bugging me about it. I told her you were here with us the night of Paula’s wreck, but she still wouldn’t shut up about it. That girl was out of control. It’s the parents’ responsibility to keep their children in line. I told her that, too. Paula was a no-good girl. She was no good for you.”

I feel myself trembling. “You can put me down and get away with it, but not Paula.”

She becomes real quiet, then nods. Takes a sip of her wine. I think maybe she’s going to shut up now, so I can leave.

But I’m not so lucky. “She reminds me of your sister. You gotta take care of your sister. No good man likes a tramp.”

“What do you know about good men, Mom?”

“You be quiet, your father deserves respect.”

“Yeah, he demands a lot of respect. He seems kind of insecure to me.”

“Your father works hard,” she says, slurring the words. This is what it’s like talking to my drunkard mother—not all of her responses make total sense. “Just behave yourself and he’ll leave you alone. You bring it on yourself. It’s the way you act and dress that sets him off.” Her head rolls a little. “You mustn’t embarrass this family.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

I don’t say anything. What’s the point of saying anything?

Mom, you betrayed me.

You brought me into this world and didn’t protect me. You brought me into this world and tried to make me hate myself.

I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you, Mom, for that betrayal.

I leave you to your damn glass.

little sis

My twin sis Jasmine—I call her “little sis.” I like my little sis. When she’s not being annoying.

She shrugs her backpack off her shoulder, sets it on the couch. Looks at me.

“What is it, Jasmine?” I ask.

“I’m going to move out.”

I blink at her for a moment. “Where are you going to go?”

“I’m moving in with Chris.”

“Chris? Why Chris?”

“Because he loves me and he said he’ll take care of me.”

“But you’ve only known him three weeks.”

“So? I love him. I can tell already that we’re right for each other. What more do I need?”

“Jasmine. You’re being foolish.”

She bites her lip. “I can’t take Dad anymore. Chris is nice to me.”

“Jasmine.…”

“I’m going to do it.”

I nod. “At least wait a while.”

“No, I’m going to do it. And I’m not waiting around for that baby to hatch either. I never wanted this family to have another baby anyway. They never asked me if I wanted to add my cells to it. They never asked me.” She’s breaking down, her shoulders trembling.

I look to the fetus in the glass, expecting it to twitch or kick or something. But it just sits there.

She doesn’t look. “I can’t take Dad anymore. I’m going.”

Dad.

You’ve hurt her, Dad.

I’ve been there on Christmas, when you didn’t give her any presents and said she was a whore. I watched you take the present she gave you and throw it in the trash.

I look at her, look into her green eyes to let her know I understand.

Underneath it all, she’s just a little girl, trying to be tough … searching desperately for someone who will love her.

I feel a sudden urge. I take her hand and hold it.

She lets me.

My little sis.

fetus

Him and Mom are arguing when I walk in. I try to slip by.

“Hey idiot! I told you to clean your damn room!”

Despite everything with Paula, and the baby and sis, I was actually happy.

But no sooner I’m in the door, he starts in on me.

I tell him alright, hope that will be it, start to walk to my room.

Not good enough.

“You’re pathetic,” he calls to my back as I walk away, then a moment later, “Just like Paula.”

I turn. And I suddenly feel everything that’s been building up inside coming out of me. “Hey the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it, Pop? Is that what your dad used to say to you? Maybe some day I’ll say it to my kid.” I giggle a little. I’ve never called him “Pop” before.

He looks shaken. “What did you say?”

I put my hands around my mouth and mock-yell at him. “Getting deaf in your old age, Pop? I said, is that what your dad used to say to you, Pop?” I feel giggles coming up inside of me. “Did he say you were pathetic? Did he say you were a loser?”

He actually winces! “I’ll teach you, you little smartass.”

I laugh at him.

He stands there, frozen, not knowing what to do.

I look at Mom, standing by the couch. I can’t stop giggling. I mock her expression, opening my eyes wide. “He works hard huh, Mom? If being an asshole was his job, he’d be making overtime.” I can’t stop laughing.

Now little sis has arrived from her room. I look to her and her face is so horrified it’s comical.

hehehehehehehehehehehe

I look back at Dad. “You’re a failure, Pop. You really think if you yell loud enough, we won’t notice?”

The rage makes his face red. Too funny.

heheheheheheheheheheheh

There’s an odd, lurking itch in my brain—shouldn’t I be worried? But I’m not.

I look to Mom. She has her arms wrapped around herself.

“You better hold yourself tight, because you sure ain’t gonna get any lovin’ from this freaky monkey.” Her reaction is too funny. “Tell me Mom, does he satisfy you … sexually?”

I look back at Dad, and say in a condescending voice, “You know, you really shouldn’t take your sexual inadequacies out on us.”

That look on his face shows too much, and I relish pouncing on the weakness. “Is that what it is? Are you impotent, Pop? Is that why you made us all go down to the clinic, because you couldn’t make love to your own wife?” I’m laughing. My dad is pathetic. Even more pathetic than me.

“You … shut up.” It’s almost a whimper.

I don’t know what he’s going to do, but I know I’ve got him good. No matter what, I’ve got him forever.

It makes me laugh even more.

He rushes at me. As I go to hit him, he grabs my wrist and the room blurs as we spin. He shoves me and I flail backward. Sharp flash of pain as my elbow scrapes into the brick wall. My head snaps backward toward the mantelpiece, the back of my head thumps the container, slides it.

I feel a sudden surge of panic. I turn, watch as it leans over the edge, then tumbles through the air and cracks and spills its brown puddle of glass and machine parts onto the floor.

I look down at the wrinkly fetus lying on its tummy in the puddle, the side of its face pressed to the floor, its arms and legs writhing, pressing into glass.

I stare at it.

I start giggling. “Run! Run!” I yell at it. I’m laughing so hard my sides are aching. “You’re freeeee!” The mound squirms. “Run, run, little fetus! You’re freeeeee! You’re freeeeee!”

Chapter 4

Babysitting Alicia

Holding little baby Alicia was the most beautiful feeling on earth. Mary sat on the living room couch, softly cradling the infant in her arms, gently rocking her. She kissed the baby’s forehead and looked into her big green eyes.

Alicia grinned back quietly, showing her dimples. It was strange to think that Mary was over ten times the age of Alicia. Alicia was 11 months old and Mary was 12 years old. Alicia was still pure and innocent while Mary was hating having to grow up.

“Who am I?” Mary asked and grinned.

“Mary!”

Mary laughed and felt a warm flush come over her whole body. Alicia had only begun saying Mary’s name earlier in the day. This was only the second day that Mary had babysat her.

Alicia was such a smart little baby. It was obvious in the way she moved, the way she looked at things. It was as if she was studying and analyzing, much more than an ordinary 11-month-old.

Alicia’s father had even said so. He felt that Alicia might even be a genius and intended to have her intelligence tested one day.

Alicia made a short cry, and Mary grabbed the bottle off of the coffee table and handed it to Alicia. Mary watched her suckling.

Briefly, she wondered what it would be like to breastfeed her, what it would be like if Alicia were her own. But it made her too sad to think about and she felt her eyes welling up.

Alicia stopped suckling, as if she could sense what Mary was thinking. She dropped the bottle then reached out as if to stroke Mary’s cheek. Mary leaned her face forward and Alicia softly caressed her with her stubby fingers, and said, “No sad.”

Mary laughed softly and rubbed her eyes. “No sad, Alicia,” she replied back. Then she sat silent for a moment, thinking what she would name Alicia if she was her baby. “Magenta,” she said and tapped Alicia’s nose with her fingertip. She’d always wanted a child named Magenta.

Alicia frowned and said, “Noooooo … Alicia.”

Mary laughed in surprise. “Oh, I’m sorry, Alicia. I forgot how smart you are. I meant no offense.”

Alicia nodded and held her arms out for the bottle again. Mary handed it to her and Alicia started suckling again.

She watched Alicia with a stupid grin on her face. This was love, sweet and pure. This was what she had been looking for all her life, the filling of the emptiness of her soul. And this was a better love than the love between a boy and a girl. She didn’t even like boys, and besides, marriage only led to divorce, just like with her own parents. No, the love she felt for Alicia was different—it was unconditional, it was innocent.

And Alicia wasn’t like any other babies. She was special. Mary had seen and held babies before, but none of them were like Alicia.

But she also knew that Alicia would be gone soon. Alicia’s parents were moving in a week. Alicia’s mother had already left and was staying in California. Her father was still working, so they’d needed someone to take care of Alicia for a few days. Mary’s father knew Alicia’s mother and that’s how this whole babysitting job had come about.

Mary shook her head. She should try to not be so attached.

But Mary wanted to pretend. She wanted to pretend Alicia was hers for her to love. She could probably even love Alicia better than her own family. She knew Alicia had an older brother named Lotus, and a sister named Jasmine, but they had both run away and no one knew where they were. Why would they run away unless it was a bad family?

She looked into Alicia’s big green eyes, and Alicia stared back and blinked. She wanted Alicia to love her back in the way only a little baby could.

“Do you love me?” Mary asked.

“No,” Alicia replied.

Mary laughed nervously, trying to cover up the sudden pain it had caused. “What?”

“No love you.”

Mary had to turn her face away. She felt as if her guts were being wrenched out. “Oh, well, I understand. Why would you love me?” And then, even though she tried not to, she felt a tear roll down her cheek.

Alicia looked sad, and said, “Sorry.”

“Don’t feel sad, Alicia. I guess love doesn’t come that easy. It’s childish to think it does. I was dumb to think you’d love me just because you’re a little baby. I mean, you’re smart, you know better than that. Maybe you’re even smarter than me.”

Then her cell phone sounded, playing the tune her brother had programmed it to play, one of her favorite songs, Rebel Pout’s, “Pincushion Messiah.” Sometimes her brother could actually do nice things. But he was mostly an asshole jock football player who wanted to be a frat-boi someday.

Mary picked up the phone and answered it, “Meow?”

“Having fun?” It was Tina, Mary’s best friend.

“Actually, I am. Alicia is so adorable. She’s the cutest baby I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh yeah? Well how long have you been there? Three hours?”

“Yeah, Alicia’s dad is working all day.”

“I know. I miss my best friend. Is this the last day?”

“No, there’s still two more days.”

“So I bet you must be pretty hungry. Is it only you in the house?”

“Well, Mr. Ronan said I could eat anything I want. I had a sandwich earlier. And yeah, it’s just me and Alicia and the cat, but Dad and Mr. Ronan call every once in a while, why?”

“Dunno. You want fries with that shake?”

“What?” Mary giggled.

“I just think you got a nice ass and I got fries for your shake.” Now Tina was giggling.

“That doesn’t even make sense. What are you talking about?”

“Oh no! There’s a serial killer at your door!” Then the doorbell rang. “Guess who?”

Mary smirked. “Someone’s come to kill the cereal? I’m not supposed to let anyone in, you know.…”

“Oh, come on. I brought burgers.”

“You can’t bribe me with burgers.”

“Yes I can. Come on, I’ll only stay fifteen minutes. My mom thinks I’m at the mall.” Now the doorbell started ringing over and over.

“Oh! You’re terrible! Okay, let me put Alicia in her crib.” Mary set the phone down, then picked Alicia up and went and set her in her crib. Then she went to the front door and opened it. Tina was there, holding a Burger Despot bag, munching on a french fry. She was wearing one of her low-cut shirts, to show off her large breasts.

“Who is it?” Mary asked and giggled.

“It’s the pincushion messiah.”

Mary started singing and Tina joined in, “Pin cushion messiah, broken diva inside ya!”

They giggled, then Tina flicked a fry at Mary.

“Hey cut it out!” Mary exclaimed. She bent to pick up the fry, then let Tina inside.

“I brought you a cheeseburger, with no onions, like you like. Wooh. It’s cool in here. It is sooooo hot out there! Austin is way too hot. Is here okay?” Tina asked, pointing at the kitchen table. Tina had moved to Texas two years ago and was always complaining about the hot summers.

“Yeah, that’s fine. Was Jeremy there?” She smiled. Jeremy was the boy that Tina had a crush on.

“Of course. Why else would I go there?” She blushed.

Mary chuckled. “So did you make any progress?”

“No, I just waved at him. They had him working in the back room.”

“Oh, okay.” Mary had unwrapped the burger and took a bite. “It’s a little cold.”

“How can it be cold when it’s a hundred degrees outside?”

“Was he cute in his hat?” She chuckled.

“Yeah,” and Tina looked shyly down. Then she started looking around. “Hey, where’s the baby? I wanna see her.”

“She’s in the bedroom. You wanna see her? She’s the cutest baby you’ve ever seen. But you gotta leave soon, okay? I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“Oh, relax, you’re not gonna get in trouble. Yeah, let’s go see her. Her name’s Alicia?”

“Yeah, Alicia”

They walked into the bedroom.

They walked over to the crib and looked down at Alicia.

Mary gazed down adoringly at little baby Alicia in her crib.

Baby Alicia looked up at them, looking from side to side at each of their faces, then broke into a huge grin and squealed and wiggled her arms and legs.

Mary felt her heart flutter. There was no doubt. Alicia was the most beautiful baby she’d ever seen her entire life.

She looked over at Tina and Tina’s jaw had gone slack as she stood dumbfounded looking at Alicia, and she had pressed her hand to her chest, above that deep chasm of cleavage, more cleavage than any 12-year-old should have—and she was holding her breath in awe.

And Mary suddenly felt a double jealousy.

She’d always been jealous of Tina’s large breasts, ever since they’d started growing five months ago. And she hated the way she always showed them off all the time. Tina only did it to get attention from bois. Really, Mary thought it showed little class, and besides, she hated it because being seen with Tina only made Mary’s flat chest look flatter. And plus, Tina was a little lopsided, but Mary never told her, because they were best friends.

But now she was not only jealous of the booby queen’s (as all the kids called her) large boobs.

Right now she was extremely jealous because of the way Tina was looking at Alicia.

“Oh my god, Mary,” Tina said. “Oh my god, she’s so beautiful.”

Mary didn’t really understand why, but she felt a sudden surge of possessiveness, of anger. She blurted out, “Okay, you’ve seen her, now it’s time to go.”

But now Tina was saying, “Awwww … I’ve gotta hold her.”

Mary struggled hard to hide her anger. Who the hell did Tina think she was, just showing up uninvited anyway? “Look, Tina, you can’t hold her, okay? You have to go. I don’t want to get in trouble!”

“Whoa, crackhead girl! You need to seriously take a chill pill. You want some? My doctor keeps me seriously supplied.” And to illustrate her point, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a little container of pills. She took out one pill and swallowed it without water, then she gave Mary a goofy, overdone smile.

“Look, Tina, I can’t have you doing drugs. What are those, anyways, painkillers?”

“Yes, but they’re prescription. Pills solve all problems.”

Mary tried to make her voice more forceful, “Look, Tina, you have to go.”

“Mary, you’ve got to let me help you babysit.”

“What? No way! You’re not even supposed to be here.”

“Please just let me hold her a few minutes. Or tomorrow, I could help you. My mom could talk to Alicia’s dad. Wouldn’t it be better to have two people take care of her? You don’t understand.…”

Mary felt a surge of overwhelming jealousy. She didn’t want Tina touching Alicia or even looking at her. She wanted Alicia to be all her own! Alicia was the most beautiful baby in the world, and obviously Tina knew that also, and Mary didn’t want to share her!

Tina seemed oddly desperate and Mary just looked at her, puzzled. “Mary, you don’t understand. I just … I’ve never felt this way about a baby.… I want to.…” She looked embarrassed.

“What? What do you want to do?”

“I want to … breastfeed her.…” And she blushed. “Come on, you gotta let me do it. She wants me to.”

Mary felt the surge of anger. “Get out!” she screamed, and grabbed Tina by the arm.

But then little Alicia started crying and saying, “Don’t go! Tina, don’t go!”

They both stared down at baby Alicia in stunned silence.

Tina sneered and said, “See? Obviously she wants a real woman and not some little girl with two fried-eggs on her chest.”

Mary stood, trembling, thinking how dare Tina talk to her that way, and yet some part of her feared she might be right. She wanted to grab Tina and throw her out, but what could she do in front of Alicia?

Tina started to bend over the edge of the crib to pick Alicia up and Alicia held her arms out and squealed in delight.

“Don’t.” Mary said, and Tina stopped.

Tina sneered at Mary. “Why don’t we let Alicia decide? You told me how smart she is, right?”

“Right. She’s the smartest baby in the world.” Alicia grinned up at Mary.

“Well, if you asked her, would she understand you?”

“Yes, she’d understand, but I took care of her yesterday and today. I love her. She doesn’t even know you.”

“So maybe she’s tired of you. So why don’t you ask her? Are you afraid?”

Mary stammered, “I’m the one who’s supposed to be taking care of her.”

“Are you afraid?”

“I—” Mary actually was afraid. She didn’t know what she would do if Alicia chose Tina over her.

“I’ll ask her,” Tina said. “Hi, Alicia. My name is Tina. Would you like me to babysit you?”

Alicia grinned and exclaimed, “Yes!”

Mary felt sudden dread. “Alicia, sweety. Who do you want to be your babysitter? Her, or me?”

They both waited in breathless anticipation for her answer.

Alicia said, “Don’t know. I choose.”

“What does she mean?” Tina asked Mary.

“I don’t know. I think she wants to choose somehow between us.” She looked down at Alicia, “How do you want to choose, sweety?”

“Let’s play a game!” Alicia exclaimed and clapped. It was the same phrase and tone of voice Mary had been using when she wanted to play a game with Alicia.

Mary’s heart skipped a beat. She had been playing games with Alicia all day and yesterday. Peek a boo, little piggy, singing to her, etc. Tina had done none of that. All she had was big boobs and even in life outside, that’s all she seemed good for and that was the only reason bois liked her. “What game do you want to play?”

Alicia clapped and exclaimed, “Dancing!”

Mary grinned. She often danced for Alicia and that was the reason Alicia had asked for it. Mary started waving her hands from side to side and swaying her head and singing one of Alicia’s favorite songs, “Young Alicia had a farm.…”

Alicia giggled and sang along, “Eee i eee i o!”

Tina stood still, not seeming to know what to do as Alicia clapped and squealed at Mary. Then Tina started swaying her hips seductively, then running her hands along her stomach and up over herself, and squeezing her breasts.

Alicia seemed transfixed by Tina’s large breasts as she seductively ran her hands over them and squeezed them.

Mary exclaimed angrily, “What the hell are you doing Tina? She’s just a little baby!”

“Exactly, she’s just a baby. It’s not sexual for her. She just likes a real woman with real breasts. I mean, just look at these luscious milk machines, and then, look at you.” She sneered.

Mary stood silently, grinding her teeth, trying to control her anger. She clenched her fists tightly. Then despite herself, she found herself saying, “You don’t even have milk, you milkless fat cow.”

“Skinny flat-chested bitch.”

Mary was about to say something else, but Alicia suddenly yelled out, “Stop!”

They both looked down at Alicia. Then Tina twitched her head. “Whoa,” she said, “Mary, that pill really just kicked in.”

“Oh, shut the hell up. Alicia, have you made your decision?”

“Nooooo.”

Mary sighed. “Do you want to play another game?”

Alicia clapped and gleefully exclaimed, “Yes! Cut you!”

Tina said, “What does she mean, Mary?”

“I don’t know,” Mary mumbled. She looked down at Alicia. “What do you mean?”

“Mary cut Mary,” Alicia replied.

Mary’s eyes went wide as she suddenly understood. She asked Alicia, “You want us to cut ourselves to prove how much we want to babysit you?”

Alicia clapped and said, “Yes, that’s what I want!”

Mary looked over at Tina, who seemed a little disturbed by the idea, but when she saw Mary looking at her, she said, “No problem. I’m on so many pills I won’t feel anything right now.”

Mary was hoping that Tina was bluffing, and since she didn’t want to leave Tina alone with Alicia, she said, “There are knives in the kitchen.” and she pointed to the left.

“Fine,” Tina said, then she went out the bedroom door.

Tina seemed to be in a hurry since she obviously knew that Mary would talk to Alicia while she was gone. Mary managed to say a few words to Alicia—”She doesn’t know you. Tina isn’t the nicest girl and I’m her best friend. I mean, you don’t like her just because of her breasts do you? She doesn’t even make milk. Do you understand?” Then Tina was walking back with a butcher knife in her hand.

She walked up and held the knife out to Mary. Now Tina was trying to call Mary’s bluff.

Mary looked down and Alicia started clapping and chanting, “Cut cut cut!”

Mary took the knife. Her hand trembled a little. Then with a firm expression on her face, she lifted the blade to her lower bicep and sliced across, feeling the sharp pain. After a few seconds, blood welled up on the line the knife had made, then drops of blood started rolling down her arm.

Alicia clapped and squealed and shouted, “Yayyyy!”

Tina scowled and her eyes narrowed as she glared at Mary.

Mary bit her lip and stared into Alicia’s eyes, feeling the pain, feeling the warm blood rolling down her arm.

Mary’s hand started to tremble more as she felt a surge of adrenalin.

Mary turned and looked at Tina, and glared.

Tina sneered. “Flat-chested bitch.”

Alicia squealed and giggled at that. Tina looked down at her and grinned.

“Spaghetti-strap cleavage-girl,” Mary said.

Alicia clapped and started chanting, “More, more, more!”

Tina replied, “You know about spaghetti, huh. I bet that’s all you can eat, brace-face.”

“Hey, whatever, monstertits. It looks like you have two bald-headed midgets in a headlock!”

“Shut up because it looks like you have two goose bumps on your chest, you titless dork!”

Alicia giggled and clapped.

“Yeah, well that’s the only reason boys like you. I mean, look at how you dress. You look like a slut, booby queen!”

“Oh yeah? Well why don’t you grow some tits, train-track face, training-bra girl. And you sure talk about my tits a lot. You must like looking at them or something!”

“Yeah? Well the only reason they’re so big is because you’re so chubby!”

A hurt look flashed across Tina’s face. “You shut up! I hate your stupid purple hair and your stupid pigtails. You look like a little kid!”

“It’s not purple, it’s violet, bitch.”

“Virgin.”

“Fat slut!”

“Metal mouth cockshredder!”

“Buttface!”

“Titless pigtail-head!” Then Tina reached over and yanked the pigtail on the side of Mary’s head, jerking her head, then letting go. Then she stood with her hands on her hips, smirking at Mary.

Mary suddenly exploded into rage. “Kill your melons!” she screamed and she lunged with the knife, stabbing at the object of her hate, stabbing at that lush, round mound and the heart beating beneath it. She felt the knife slide into the top of Tina’s boob, then suddenly realizing what she had done, she let go and gasped and brought her hands up to her mouth in horror. “Oh my god!”

Alicia started clapping and shouting, “Again! Do it again!”

Tina slowly looked down at the knife stuck in her chest. It twitched with each beat of her heart. “I don’t even feel it.”

“Oh, god,” Mary said. “Tina, I’m so sorry.”

“Yes, well.… I shouldn’t have said all those things.”

“Yes, I’m sorry for what I said, too. I didn’t mean it. And I’m sorry I stabbed your boob.”

“That’s okay. I don’t think you hit my heart, though. You must have hit a rib.”

“Oh, well that’s good at least.”

Alicia started shouting, “Cut her more! Cut her more!” while pointing at Tina.

Mary said to Alicia, “No, no, Alicia. No more stabbing.”

Alicia started throwing a tantrum and yelling, “More stabbing! More stabbing!”

Tina chuckled, which made the knife jiggle up and down. “She’s a little sadistic, but she’s the cutest baby I’ve ever seen.”

“Yes, she’s real cute.”

Tina thought for a moment. “You’ve got to let me come over tomorrow, or I’ll tell everyone that you stabbed me.”

Mary sighed heavily. “Okay.”

“And now I’m going to need some duct tape, some rubbing alcohol and a new shirt. Oh and a glass of water for my pills.”

Mary went and got a roll of duct tape, a bottle of vodka, a glass of water, and a shirt from the runaway girl’s closet that said, “SNOLEMON LIK” with a picture of a girl licking a yellow snow cone on the front. She gave these all to Tina.

Alicia insisted on watching Tina pull the knife out, and when she did, and when the blood started coming out, Alicia clapped and squealed in delight.

Chapter 5

The Princess and the Pretty Boi

[The following story is Mary’s favorite story from the old collection of fairy tales known as, “The Nubile Verses.” The book was given to Mary as a gift on her 12th birthday from her best friend Tina. Mary loves to read the story over and over. She draws little hearts by the word, “Pretty Boi” and dreams of someday having a pretty boi of her own.]

The Pretty Boi’s Story

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful baby boi. He was the cutest baby boi in the land, with the cutest dimples and the most gorgeous sparkling green eyes. Only his twin sister equaled his beauty. (But hers is another story.) And with each passing day, the boi only grew more and more pretty. All the women who saw him, fawned over him and looked forward to the day that he might come of age, so that they might take him as a lover.

But it turned out, by a series of strange occurrences (and that, again, is another story) that when he was five months old, the Pretty Boi came to be adopted by the Queen of the kingdom.

Now the Queen was the Queen after all, and she had it in her power to keep the Pretty Boi hidden from the sight of all others. She wanted to be the only person to set her eyes upon the prettiest boi in the kingdom. (And secretly, she wished that someday, when he came of age, she might take him as her lover.)

Now the Queen knew it was best if the child was breast-fed, but she had not recently given birth, so she couldn’t do it herself. So, to feed him, she employed one of her servant girls who had recently given birth, whose breasts were still full and round with her milk.

But the Queen wanted no other eyes to gaze upon her most precious possession, she wanted no other hands to touch or hold him.

So, she would have the servant girl stripped to her waist, her breasts made bare, then the Queen would have her hands bound behind her back, and her eyes covered by a blindfold. Only then would she allow the girl to enter the Pretty Boi’s room. She trusted no one to be alone with him, so she waited for the girl in the room. And immediately as the girl entered, she would order the girl to kneel upon her knees, for she was before the Queen.

And only under all of these conditions would she hold the boi up to the girl’s breasts and allow him to suckle and feed upon her milk.

But even all of these conditions were not enough.

The Queen soon grew furiously jealous, for the boi was so beautiful, that even to touch him seemed somehow to transfer his beauty, to impart a strange sort of pleasure, and the Queen would seethe as she watched the servant girl’s face as the boi suckled. She angrily noted the expressions of pleasure on her face, and even the occasional moan, and she began to notice that the girl’s nipples would be hard with her excitement even as she walked into the room, before she had even begun to feed the child.

The Queen tried very hard to control her jealousy. She knew how important it was for a baby to receive human milk directly from a woman’s breast, but she could not stand to see the girl derive such pleasure from it, and she only grew more and more jealous, more and more furious, until one day, the servant girl was feeding the boi, and she involuntarily let out a moan.

The Queen had just come in from riding a horse and had carried the riding crop in with her, and before she even realized what she was doing, she set the boi down and had pushed the girl onto her face and pulled down the girl’s skirts, exposing the girl.

Then the Queen was striking hard at the girl’s bare bottom with the riding crop as the girl screamed out in surprise and pain.

The Queen unleashed her fury into causing pain, hitting the girl until her bottom was flaming red and as the riding crop continued to rise and fall on her soft flesh, the girl whimpered and moaned, and began to tremble and sob, yet still the Queen did not relent and only brought even more ferocious blows to her flaming red bottom and her most tender places, until the girl collapsed, panting and trembling on the floor, begging, “Please, please have mercy!”

After that incident, the Queen vowed that the girl would never again derive pleasure from the child suckling from her. So each time the girl would breast-feed the Pretty Boi, the Queen would have her stripped completely naked, then the girl would have to bend over the child so that he could feed while he lay on his back on the floor. And then as the child suckled, the Queen would furiously whip her as she trembled and bit her lip, as the tears streamed from beneath her blindfold, and her pleasure was robbed from her, replaced with pain.

Yet even this was not enough.

For the Queen began to fear that perhaps the Pretty Boi was becoming emotionally attached to the servant girl, because after all, he spent each of his feeding times with her. The Queen could not tolerate the jealousy this caused, so she had the servant girl cast out, and from that day forward, each time the boi fed, it was from a different girl, and he never suckled from the same pair of breasts again. And the girls never derived pleasure from feeding him, only pain.

Yet, through a strange set of circumstances, the Queen was unable to raise the boi to maturity as she had planned.

And here is where the Catholic priest enters the story.

It just so happened that on the castle grounds, there lived a gentle, blind Catholic priest. Now this priest was so well honored and respected, that he was allowed to have his own walled little garden on the castle grounds.

Each night, after he had performed his daily duties, he would disappear behind the stone walls surrounding his home and no one would see him again until the next morning, when he reemerged to perform his daily duties once again.

All the people of the court knew what lay beyond those tall, stone walls, even though no one had ever actually seen.

They knew that in addition to a humble shack in which the priest lived, that he tended a beautiful, hidden garden of the most beautiful flowers. They were innocent flowers, unmarred by the evil and wickedness of man, unseen by anyone’s eyes and untouched by any other hands but the gentle and tender priest. They called it, “The Garden of Innocence.”

But even though everyone expressed a desire to gaze upon the garden, no one ever attempted to, for they knew that to lay eyes upon it would destroy the very innocence they so cherished.

For, just as in all aspects of life, our desire for things exceeds our satisfaction upon attaining them.

It was said earlier that no eyes had gazed upon the garden, but that is not entirely correct.

There was one exception.

Now it was the case that the garden’s walls were very high, and the garden was situated in such a way that, though there were many windows in the castle offering views of the castle grounds, none offered a view into that hidden garden, none except for one single window in one single room of the castle.

And that room was the room the Queen had chosen to be the Pretty Boi’s.

So, you see, the Queen and the Pretty Boi had gazed upon the Garden of Innocence.

But as we all know, innocence is its own sort of seduction. For it seems, the more we move forward in life, the more we desire to return to what once was.

After each of the child’s feedings, she would tenderly hold him, and they would gaze upon that beautiful garden. And as time went on, the more she gazed upon the profound and simple beauty of that garden, the more she came to view what she had become as something most ugly, and to detest all the ugliness she had visited upon the world and the more she desired to return to the innocence she had known as a child.

It became a desperate longing, and the desire came to consume every waking moment and even her dreams at night.

And she would often look down at the child in her arms and cry, thinking about how pure and innocent he was, but that he would only become corrupted by the evils of the world. She wanted so much to protect him.

She had come to love the boi, and sometimes, the things we love the most are exactly the things we should let go.

So, one day, she spoke to the Priest.

She told him of her desire to return to innocence again and of how she had adopted the prettiest boi in the kingdom and wanted to keep him from being corrupted; however, she didn’t tell him how she had seen the garden from the castle window.

The Priest listened to the Queen and his heart was filled with compassion. He knew that the Pretty Boi could never survive in the cruel and ugly world, for it is true, that secretly, people detest the beautiful, for it reveals something they lack inside themselves, and so they seek to destroy all the beauty they see in others, and the Priest knew that the Pretty Boi would not survive the vicious attacks of human beings. And he felt compassion for the Queen as well, for the burdens of a Queen are heavy burdens indeed.

So the priest made a proposal to the Queen.

He would allow the Queen to enter the Garden of Innocence and pick a single flower to regain her innocence. In exchange, he would take the Pretty Boi and care for him and shelter him away from the evils of the world in an ivory tower behind the garden walls. There, the boi would be surrounded by innocence and kept safe in the tower.

“But be warned,” he said. “For if you ever have a son, he shall be blinded just as you blinded your servant.”

The Queen immediately accepted.

And so it came about that the Queen entered that lovely garden and picked a single flower and handed over the boi, and left with her innocence returned. And she had locks put on the special castle room so that no one would enter it.

The Pretty Boi grew into the most beautiful boi under the sun. The priest shut him into an ivory tower, which had neither stairs nor door, but at the top was a little window. The tower was tall, but not tall enough to see beyond the garden walls. When the priest wanted to go in, he placed himself beneath it and cried, “Pretty Boi, Pretty Boi, let down your hair!”

The Pretty Boi had magnificent long black hair, fine as spun silk, and when he heard the voice of the priest, he unfastened his braided tresses, wound them round one of the hooks of the window above, and then the hair fell down, and the priest climbed up by it.

The Princess’s Story

When the Queen handed the Pretty Boi over to the Priest, she soon grew to miss the baby, and soon grew profoundly lonely, and wished to have a child of her own. However, she was terrified of the Priest’s prophecy, but with the passing months, she came more and more to doubt the truth of the prophecy, until, a year later, she had quite convinced herself that it wasn’t true at all.

And so, she and the King decided to have a child, and when the Prince was born, they wept with joy and rejoiced that there was nothing whatsoever wrong with the child’s eyesight.

After so many years had passed and the Prince had grown to marrying age, he decided he wanted to marry a princess, but she would have to be a real princess. He traveled all over the world to find one, but nowhere could he get what he wanted, for many girls claimed to be princesses, but there was no way to tell if they were real ones. There was always something about them that was not as it should be.

So the Prince came home again, and was sad, for he would have liked very much to have a real princess.

One evening, there was a terrible storm, with thunder and lightning, and rain coming down in torrents.

Suddenly, a knocking was heard at the castle gate and the Queen went to open it.

And when she opened it, there, standing before her was a totally drenched girl who claimed to be a princess.

But, what a sight the rain and wind had made of her!

Her clothes were utterly drenched, her violet-colored hair was completely soaked and flat.

Yet, despite her messy appearance, her violet eyes shone through, sparkling with an inner fire, like two amethysts.

And it was because of the girl’s eyes that the Queen let her in.

“Tell me, now, are you truly a princess?” asked the Queen, as she stared at the girl, thinking there was something about her that seemed familiar.

“Yes, and several weeks ago I was struck by a strange desire to leave in the middle of the night and wander the land, and so tonight I find myself here, and I feel that I was drawn here. I don’t know why.”

The Queen had the girl escorted to the bathing chambers and had her bathed and groomed by servant girls.

When the girl reappeared, she was a most beautiful girl, with luxurious, long violet hair.

Only a true princess could have such beautiful hair of such a beautiful shade of violet—if it was the natural color of her hair.

The Queen brought the girl to meet the Prince.

The Prince was stricken by the girl’s beauty, but was unsure if she was a real princess. He said to her, “Yes, your hair may be violet, but how do I know that is the true color of your hair? How do I know that you didn’t simply dye your hair? I wish there were some way I could check to see if that was your natural hair color.” But alas, there was none, for this was a time in history before women grew hair between their legs.

But the Queen knew a way they could find out if she was truly a princess. She went into the bedroom, took all the bedding off the bedstead, and laid a pea on the bottom, then she took twenty mattresses and laid them on the pea, and on top of this, the girl had to lie all night.

In the morning, the Queen asked her how she had slept.

“Oh, very badly!” she exclaimed. “I wasn’t able to get any sleep at all! I don’t know what was in the bed, but I felt like I was lying on something hard, and now I am black and blue all over my body!”

And then the girl showed her, and indeed, she was black and blue all over her body.

So then, they knew she was a real princess, because only a true princess would have such delicate skin, so the Prince took her as his wife.

And on the day of the wedding, they made an amazing discovery, because, sitting in the crowd watching the wedding was the Princess’s mother, and it turned out she was the Queen’s original servant girl who had fed the Pretty Boi! When she had been cast off, she had gone off and married a king!

And so, it seems, life is filled with either profound coincidences or profound destiny, depending on your perspective.

The day after the wedding, the Prince told the Princess that she may take any room in the castle to be her own private room. She walked all around the inside of the castle. But there was one room, on the top floor, that was locked away, that the Queen ordered the Princess not to have.

But, because in life, we want the most what we cannot have, this room, the Princess said, was the room she wanted for her own. And so, the Prince said, she would have her wish and no one but he and her would ever be allowed to enter. The Prince would not listen to the Queen and had the locks on the room broken.

He lifted the Princess into his arms and carried her into the room. He set her down, and together they walked to the window to look out.

They noticed that the window provided a good view of the Priest’s enclosure, and then, to their surprise, they found they could see inside the Priest’s walls and see the Garden of Innocence.

But the instant the Prince gazed upon the garden was the last image he ever saw, for from that moment on, he was totally blind.

And the Princess shifted her view from the garden to the tower standing beside it, and there, she saw, looking back at her, the prettiest boi she had ever seen her entire life, as the Prince began to scream, “I can’t see! I can’t see!”

The Princess & the Pretty Boi

Over the next few months, the Prince grew more accustomed to his blindness.

And during those months, the Princess began to fall in love with the Pretty Boi.

She would often gaze out at him, sitting alone in his tower. He seemed so lonely. Often, their eyes would meet across that great distance and they would wave and stare at each other.

He was the most beautiful boi she had ever seen her entire life, and every evening when the blind Priest returned, she would watch the Pretty Boi unfurl his beautiful, long black hair. How she longed to gaze upon his beautiful face up close, to hear his voice, and to feel his fingers and hair against her skin.

But she knew it was forbidden to go past the Priest’s gates and to enter the Garden of Innocence.

But she wanted him to love her the way she loved him.

So, she tried to seduce him. She would often dance for him, or blow him kisses, but he merely looked back with a blank expression. She grew more desperate for him to love her, or even to merely lust for her, and she would even undress for him at times and display her nubile body to him.

But he merely looked at her with a disinterested expression, with neither love nor lust.

It filled her with dread, and sometimes she would even begin to cry, as he stared blankly at her naked body.

But then, she noticed, as she cried, as the tears rolled down her cheek, that then the Pretty Boi’s expression would change and he would gaze upon her with a strange expression.

It was only when she cried that she felt any glimmer of affection and interest from him—there was nothing else that affected him.

She grew more desperate, and began to think that perhaps the Pretty Boi did not cherish innocence, perhaps he had grown wary of it as he sat in his tower, surrounded by the Garden of Innocence each hour of each day.

So, the Princess became more lewd, spreading her legs in front of the window and showing the petals of her sex. She would sometimes even pleasure herself for him.

But still, the Pretty Boi was unmoved and merely watched her with no expression on his face.

He only expressed interest when she began to cry in her frustration.

She became more and more filled with dread. Nothing she did seemed to have any effect on him.

He only ever seemed mildly amused by her frustration and her tears.

She wanted something, some kind of reaction. Anything, whether it be lust, jealousy, or rage. She wanted to know she could have some kind of effect on him.

She wanted to be looked at as more than a curiosity.

So she tried to make him jealous.

She began to make love to the Prince in the room, in front of the window. She herself never derived much pleasure from the lovemaking act, but perhaps, she thought, the Pretty Boi might grow jealous to see her with another man. But as she looked in the Pretty Boi’s direction, he merely stared back with blank eyes.

How she secretly wished it were the Pretty Boi she was with, and not the Prince, for the Pretty Boi’s hair was so long and beautiful, and the Prince’s hair was so short and plain, and, even from such a long distance, the Pretty Boi’s green eyes were so piercing and intense, while the Prince’s eyes were dull and blind.

Afterwards, alone in the room, she wept, and again the Pretty Boi gazed upon her, and it provided her some comfort.

But then, one day, everything changed.

The Prince came to her, telling her he had a secret desire, an obsession.

Ever since he was a child, he said, he’d had the desire and he never understood why. But he’d been too ashamed to ever tell anyone.

He told her, he wanted to strip her naked. He wanted to bind her hands behind her back, blindfold her, and whip her.

The Princess’s eyes went wide when she heard this. She felt a ticklish feeling inside her and she began to tremble. The idea was both repulsive, and yet, somehow, desirable. She too had often had thoughts about the very same thing, but had never acted upon them.

And she also felt that if the Pretty Boi witnessed it, it might stir some feeling in him.

“But I will bruise,” she said. “I bruise so easily.”

“I care not,” he replied and so, she agreed.

So, he whipped her, at first softly, then harder, sending waves of pleasure and pain through her body. She climaxed with long, low screams. Then she collapsed, softly laughing to herself, knowing that at last she had found true sexual pleasure and desire, as the tears streamed out from beneath her blindfold. The Prince freed her and she looked immediately to the Pretty Boi.

He gazed back at her and for the first time, she saw in his face the expression of admiration and affection, as her body began to turn black and blue.…

From that day on, it was the only way she would make love to the Prince, and her body was always covered with bruises, but only the Pretty Boi ever saw them.

And each time she was whipped, she would sing this song:

Beat me, whip me, oh mistreat me.

Blind my eyes from evil’s view.

But never fail to love me,

With love that’s pure and true.

She came to really look forward to the times she could be whipped in front of the Pretty Boi and she grew more and more fond of him, until she found that she was completely in love with him, and she grew less fond of the Prince and wondered if she had even loved him at all.

And she began to wish to visit the Pretty Boi, no matter if it was forbidden. His hair was so beautiful and long and the Prince’s was so short. She detested his short hair. She had never seen anyone with hair as beautiful as the Pretty Boi’s.

She told no one of her love for the Pretty Boi and it tormented her inside.

But one day, the Queen looked at her and merely said, “You are in love with him, aren’t you?”

“Who?” replied the Princess.

“You know who,” said the Queen.

“Yes. His eyes, his hair. He is the prettiest boi I have ever seen.”

“I think of him often,” said the Queen. “I think of how sad he must be, so lonely, locked up in that tower. I think about how he must long for the company of a woman, and so I want you to go visit him and comfort him.” And with that, the Queen handed the Princess a key. It was the key to the Priest’s gate.

That evening, she snuck in. She looked around her, at the beautiful garden, inhaling its sweet aroma. She gazed up at the ivory tower, but she saw no door or stairs or ladder on it. She had no idea how she would ever get to the top, where the Pretty Boi lived.

She looked again around her at the garden. She wished to pick a flower, but she feared the Priest might know what she had done.

As she stood thinking, suddenly, there was a rustling at the gate. It was the Priest coming back! Quickly, she froze. Since the Priest was blind, if she stood completely still, he might not notice her presence.

She watched as the Priest walked up to the tower and yelled out, “Pretty Boi, Pretty Boi, let down your hair!” And moments later, the Pretty Boi’s long, beautiful black hair unfurled and the Priest climbed up the tower by it.

The Princess took that opportunity to sneak out.

The next morning, she waited for the Priest to leave, then she once again snuck into the garden.

She walked over to the base of the tower and called out, “Pretty Boi, Pretty Boi, let down your hair!”

And a moment later, the Pretty Boi’s hair came tumbling down. She grabbed a hold of it and climbed up the side of the tower.

When she entered through the window at the top, the Pretty Boi let out a gasp, for he had not been near a girl since he had been an infant, and the Pretty Boi grew afraid and cowered and covered his eyes.

The Princess didn’t know what to do. She tried to comfort him, but as she approached him, he only grew more afraid. In a soothing voice, she said, “It’s okay, I won’t hurt you. Shhhhh, it’s okay. It’s me, don’t you recognize me?” She lifted a sleeve up on her arm, revealing the black and blue bruises there.

And so began their love affair. They began to talk, and each day, after the Priest left, she would sneak in again, and they would make love.

She would always bring a whip, a blindfold, and chains, because it seemed that was the only way the Pretty Boi could make love—it had been imprinted on him from when he had been an infant.

And as the Pretty Boi whipped her and suckled her, they would sing together.

The Pretty Boi would sing:

Beat you, whip you, oh mistreat you.

Blind your eyes so you can’t see.

But always will I love you,

And bruise you tenderly.

After their lovemaking, she would caress his beautiful hair—she had never seen or felt hair so beautiful—it entranced her.

After a while, they found they had fallen quite in love.

But one day, as she was going to visit the Pretty Boi, she accidentally trampled one of the flowers in the Garden of Innocence, and when the Priest noticed this, he grew suspicious.

The next morning, he cast a spell that only made it appear as if he had left to perform his duties, then he waited in the room in the tower, until he heard the Princess cry out, “Pretty Boi, Pretty Boi, let down your hair!”

The Princess began to climb up the side of the tower, but when she was part way up, the Priest poked his head out the window, and exclaimed, “Ah, naughty girl, do you enjoy tugging on the hair? Do you enjoy stroking and feeling it? Well then, you shall have it! I give it to you to love until the end of your days! And never again shall you enter the Garden of Innocence!”

And having said that, he grabbed the Pretty Boi’s hair, and snip snip snap, he cut the Pretty Boi’s hair off with scissors.

The Princess crashed into the ground with the hair still in her hands.

She looked back up at the window, and the Pretty Boi looked back.

And as she looked at him, she found she no longer loved him, she was no longer even attracted to him, because now he had short hair.

The Princess shrieked, then fled from the Garden of Innocence with the hair trailing in her hands.

Then she ran into the forest, where she found a cave that she made her home.

And there she softly caressed the soft, beautiful hair. She smelled it and brushed it and softly caressed it against her cheek. It felt so good against her skin, and soon she found herself caressing the soft hair against that tender place between her thighs. And after several days of doing this, there began to grow a fine down of violet hair between her legs and it grew thicker each day until there was a patch of hair there.

And that was how the first pubic hair was created.

Chapter 6

The Murder of Hoppy Bunny

Baby Alicia’s Home in San Francisco, California

Baby Alicia watched the flickering television screen, with big eyes, as the daily episode of “Hoppy Bunny” began. She giggled as Hoppy appeared on the screen—she was so happy to see his white bunny fur and grinning face again.

She sang along as the theme song began to play—she even stood up, (she had learned to walk about a month ago). She shook her little booty to the music, reveling in the banjo music.

She sang:

Left foot—hoppity hop!

(She hopped on her left foot, just like Hoppy Bunny

and all the kids were doing.)

Right foot—hoppity hop!

Now go forward, hop hop hop!

Hop cuz I love you and I won’t stop!

She giggled and hopped, mesmerized by the magical land of Hoppy Bunny, a land of talking flowers and birds, and happy children singing and laughing and hugging.

The Television Studio in Austin, Texas

Amber stood taking in deep mouthfuls of air, waiting for the dizziness to stop, trying to ignore the stifling heat and the sheets of sweat soaking her body underneath the bulky costume.

Mama refused to keep the studio cold. She didn’t want the children shivering, she said.

So Mama cared more about the little kids than about Amber. Sometimes Amber would even faint. Mama would only tell her to hurry up and get back to practice or shooting, if she wanted her “candy.” Mama always called it candy in front of the children, but of course it was a different kind of candy.…

And Amber needed it.

“Wake up!” shouted Mama and Amber straightened up inside the costume and looked at her. It was hard to see through the mouth of the bunny outfit—she had to turn her head at a 45-degree angle.

The children giggled. They thought it was funny. But little kids were stupid, of course. That’s why they enjoyed watching someone dancing around in a large, goofy bunny costume singing a bunch of fake happy songs about unconditional love—love you got just for being alive and breathing, and hugs you got just for existing. It was all fake of course, but stupid little kids were too dumb to realize it. They would feel differently when they were 19, like she was.

“Action!” Mama shouted as Hoppy’s prerecorded goofy voice began to play.

She hopped dizzily on her left foot, trying not to stumble, because Mama would severely punish her if she did.

Amber had never known any of that sort of love in real life. It was only on TV, in some magical dreamland.

Her pills, her candy, loved her more than a person ever could. Pills were just pills. And when you swallowed them, they loved you, in their way.

“Dammit!” screamed Mama. “Cut!” Amber’s heart skipped as she wondered if she had done something wrong. “Next time, try not to trip, kid,” Mama said. Amber felt relieved. Mama was talking to one of the children.

It was so hot.

“Somebody cool Amber off!” screamed Mama.

The little kids started running around being goofy while one of the assistants held a portable fan up to Amber’s face.

She was mildly aware of a little boy watching her. When the assistant pulled the fan away, she peered down at the nine-year-old boy staring into the mouth part of the costume, the part Amber looked out through.

The boy stood blinking for a moment, then his face screwed up and he said, “You suck.”

A twinge of sadness struck Amber. She didn’t say anything, she merely looked back at this little boy, wondering why children were this way.

But not responding to the little boy only made him angrier. “You suck. I used to like you, but my brother told me you’re a child molester. Stupid child molester. I hope you die.”

She felt the tears welling up in her eyes, but luckily no one could see. Child molester? Why did people make up such things, as if they derived some sort of pleasure from destroying childhood symbols of innocence and love?

She continued looking at the boy’s face, which was full of pure hate.

“Child molester!” he shouted.

“Okay,” shouted Mama. “Let’s take it from the top!”

All the kids got into position, then the song started up, and all the kids started singing along:

I love you and you love me,

So I twitch my nose, you see.

Twitch twitch twitch and giggle with glee.…

Then suddenly that little boy was in front of her again, yelling, “You suck!” The kid kicked between Amber’s legs and punched her stomach. She hardly felt it through the costume, but it hurt her, emotionally.

“Get that brat off the stage!” shouted Mama.

~~*Off to Candyland*~~

That evening, she couldn’t get the image of that little boy out of her head.

She sat on the floor in her room, crouched against the wall, ignoring the television.

On the news, there had been a report of another attack of a person in a Hoppy Bunny costume. Last week, it had been members of a high school football team. They had jumped a man in a Hoppy Bunny outfit at a premiere for a pizza restaurant. It had been four boys, all around 15 years old—they’d kicked and beat him—one had a baseball bat—then they’d run off with costume’s head as a trophy. The man had died a few days later from head injuries. And now it had happened again, a copycat assault—this time it was a group of frat boys—they’d jumped a woman in a Hoppy Bunny outfit as she was walking to her car, still wearing the outfit. Three of them had jumped her and taken the head off—they didn’t know she was female, but, the victim said, once they realized that, they had forced her into their car, blindfolded her and taken her to someplace where they had all raped her, then they’d left her in a secluded area of woods.

She stared at the little violet pill in her hand, turning it over and over. The pills had the letters “PL” on one side.

The letters stood for “Purple Lotus.”

Amber used to go to dealers to get it. Now she got it from Mama.

It was the pills that kept Amber from leaving, though she had been considering leaving more and more lately. She couldn’t live like this forever—she wasn’t a child anymore.

Mama hadn’t let her out much for the past three years, ever since a few months after Mama had adopted Amber and Lisa—Amber hadn’t even met Lisa before back then, then all of the sudden they were all supposed to be part of the same family. Mama kept Lisa locked up in a room on the opposite side of the house, so they hardly even interacted with each other.

She picked up the glass of water from the floor beside her and closed her eyes, recalling once again the image of that boy’s hate-filled face.

She slipped the pill into her mouth and washed it down.

Why were children so cruel?

Well, the little boy hadn’t been so cruel before. He had worked on the previous two episodes as well and had always been a typical, happy, friendly boy who looked up to Hoppy Bunny.

But then of course, the boy’s older brother had started telling him things. She didn’t know the boy’s older brother, but she figured he was a teenager—a cruel, hateful, snotty teenage boy, who loved to snicker and make fun of things, who loved to attack childish things, who had lots of fun telling his younger brother that Hoppy Bunny was a child molester.

She sighed.

Children always started out as too innocent to hate anyone, but something always happened to them along the way, something emerged in them, a viciousness inside human beings that made them the cruelest animal of them all.

She stood up and walked over to turn off the little television on top of the cardboard box.

As usual, she was bored.

There was never anything to do.

All she had was the television, and occasionally Mama would give her a book (when she “behaved”) and of course there were the Hoppy Bunny Show scripts.

Of course, Mama rarely even let her or Lisa out of their rooms. They were both supposed to sit and memorize the next day’s script. Sometimes, if Amber was sick or something, Lisa would take her place.

The last time Amber had been outside her room or the studio had been three months ago on her 19th birthday.

And of course, there were the occasional visits to the creepy old guy that Mama always set up for her. He was Mama’s boyfriend. The guy was real weird, but at least the visits were a break from the monotony and boredom.

He’d always want her to wear sexy, lacy lingerie while wearing the Hoppy Bunny head and all he would do was call her “sweety” and “my little angel” and paint her toenails.

Amber’s own father had done much worse, which was why she had been removed from the home and put up for adoption in the first place.

It could be worse, and Mama always gave her an extra pill as a reward on those days she visited the guy.

She felt the first wave of the drug wash over her head. She closed her eyes to focus on it.

“Bunnyheads”—that was the insulting term they used for Hoppy Bunny’s fans.

But little kids loved Hoppy Bunny—loved her so much.

I wonder what they’d think if they knew that Hoppy Bunny was a girl, she thought.

She swayed her head from side to side and started humming.

She walked over to the Hoppy Bunny head and bent over to pick it up.

The Purple Lotus was starting to kick in more. She kissed the Hoppy Bunny head on the lips, then slipped the head over her own head.

She went to stand in front of her full-length mirror.

She giggled, looking at her naked body with the oversized rabbithead on it. She looked at the fingernail scratches all down her arms.

She giggled. She was Hoppy Bunny, the self-mutilating bunnyhead with boobies.

She started to sing as she swayed in the mirror, as her mind began to hum.

Then dazedly, slurring, she sang:

Hop cuz I love you and I won’t stop,

Hop cuz I can’t stop, hop till I drop!

She flowed her hands in the mirror, watching them dance.

She could see her father’s face in the mirror, telling her, “You’re so pretty. You’re my angel.”

“You want this,” he’d say.…

he’d say that before he’d kiss her.…

And Mama had said she was pretty too, before Mama had adopted her.

“You’re so pretty, you could be a model.”

A model just like Tyria.…

She clumsily sat on the floor.

Everybody loves Tyria. Tyria’s the most beautiful supermodel. Would the boy kick Tyria? Everybody loves Tyria because she’s pretty, not because she wears a costume.

I want to be pretty.

So pretty. I want to be loved. Why do they hate me? They can’t even see me.

She lifted the head off and tossed it backwards.

Hoppy hoppy.

No hope for Hoppy Bunny.

Dizzy, dizzy. Hoppy Bunny dizzy.

She lay on the floor and closed her eyes.

Amber’s Dream

~*In the land of dreams, the loving eyes wait for you*~

She felt the words as a whisper, then she was looking out upon a shimmering garden of beautiful, swaying flowers.

Giggles of children filled the air.

She looked around her and she was surrounded by naked little babies, as far as the eye could see.

The babies were crawling and giggling, the flowers shifted and bent as they moved among them.

All the babies were naked, but no matter how hard Amber looked, she couldn’t tell the boys apart from the girls. Their bodies were hidden by the flowers, and little babies’ genders are often hard to tell.

But she knew that soon would change.

She knew in the way you know in dreams, that she was wearing the Hoppy Bunny head.

She looked down at her body, and she was naked, but her body was different, her chest was flat, her body was hairless, smooth and sleek.

She looked around her and watched as the babies began to grow older, they began to stand up and walk, hair grew on their heads—the boys grew short hair, the girls grew long hair.

And they started to chant, calling her name,

~*Amber, Amber, Ambrosia and Nectar

Hop till you drop

HOP TO INFECT HER*~

nymphaic splendor

get her get her.

The boys and girls began to hop and spin and dance.

Now they sang,

“Hop till you kill her,

Hop down on top.”

Autumn came to the garden.

A cool wind blew over her body, and the bright light of the sun became darker.

The children continued to grow.

They were now six or seven years old.

They all turned and gazed at her in adoration and smiled sweet, little kid smiles.

They all chanted while swaying from side to side—

“Hoppy Bunny Hoppy Bunny.”

But Amber looked at them and felt sick.

The love they felt would soon turn—they’d come to feel they had been deceived and tricked, their love would switch to hate, to revenge, anger and violent denial that they had once ever been children.

Winter came to the garden.

All the flowers in the garden began to droop and wilt.

All the boys and girls began to suddenly sprout up.

Hair sprouted between their legs.

The girls’ nipples enlarged and they began to grow breasts. Their bodies became long and nubile.

The boys’ bodies grew more muscular and strong. Their penises grew larger, then became erect.

The boys and girls all turned to the person beside them and kissed.

When they turned back to look at her, all the innocence had left their faces.

She saw only pure hatred, in their eyes, the scowls on their faces, the fists they made.

They lunged for her, and Amber tried to run but there was no place to run to—she was caught up in a swirling wind of hatred.

Their hands were on her, filling her with coldness.

In desperation, she looked up at the sky. Up there, she saw a beautiful pair of green eyes that belonged to a boy she didn’t know, and as she watched, all the purple lotuses in the garden flew up from the ground and began dancing and swirling in circles in the air, as the eyes smiled at her, beckoned her.

She reached her hand out, and the boys and girls tore her limb from limb.

~*In the land of nightmares, they wait to tear you apart*~

The next morning, when Mama unlocked the door to Amber’s room, Amber was nowhere inside. The bars on the window were still intact, and the door didn’t look like it had been tampered with. Mama was puzzled, but there were two Hoppy Bunny episodes that needed to be shot that afternoon, so she picked up the Hoppy Bunny outfit and carried it over to Lisa’s room.

Baby Alicia’s Home in San Francisco, California

Baby Alicia watched the flickering television screen, with big eyes, as the daily episode of “Hoppy Bunny” began.

She sang along as the theme song began to play—she even stood up, (she had learned to walk about a month ago). She shook her little booty to the music, reveling in the banjo music.

Alicia watched Hoppy dance and sing. It was Hoppy, but something was different. When he hippety hopped, it wasn’t quite the same hippety hop. And the way he moved seemed different as well.

Alicia stood staring at the screen for a moment, confused. Then she began to hop.

Chapter 7

Beauty Blinds the Eyes

I am beautiful, O mortals! Like a dream in stone,

And my breast, upon which each is bruised in turn,

Inspires in a poet love silent and eternal

Like that of the material—clay flesh and bronze bone.

—Baudelaire, “Beauty”

~*emptiness was her disease, like cancer, and adoration was its chemotherapy*~

She ached for her next dose.

Jasmine followed the man into the building with her head bowed. She was afraid. Afraid that this guy was just another one of those kinds of guys she seemed to run into all the time—perhaps a pimp or someone who just got kicks from taking advantage of homeless girls.

Her last pimp had been stabbed to death, and she’d never found out why. After that, she’d vowed to make her living in other ways—no more whoring.

This man had seen her sitting outside a store, begging for money. He said he owned a modeling agency and that she had a “fresh” face, and “nice” body—he liked her “intense” appearance, he’d said—her pale skin and long black hair.

As usual, beauty was her curse—it seemed she couldn’t hide it, despite her facial piercings and grungy jeans-and-t-shirt wardrobe and her half-starved body that came from skipping days of eating—her beauty called out to people and dragged her into their lives.

As the man turned around, he spied her mournful look and declared, “Ah, we seem to have a beautiful swan in our midst! A swan amongst us ducks.”

She smiled despite herself.

The lobby smelled like chemical flower-scent. Two bleach-blond girls who looked to be around fifteen-years-old were sitting on one of the couches, chatting. Jasmine set her olive duffle bag onto the empty couch across from them.

“Follow me,” the man said.

She nodded as she passed the office receptionist, a middle-aged woman with a brown bob sitting behind a tall counter.

They walked to a back office that had pictures of beautiful women all over the walls—he beckoned her to sit in a chair.

The man sat at his desk and steepled his hands in front of his very tan, face-lifted face. He had salt-and-pepper, brown-and-gray hair, formed into a choppy kind of spiky hairstyle.

The man stared at her face.

She felt self-conscious—she drew in a breath and was about to speak.

But, “Sit,” he said, then his voice became whispery. “Stay still, stay very still.”

He stood and approached her.

He lifted his trembling finger to her prominent cheekbones—she shied away but he pushed her face with his fingertip and she was still as he said, “Shhh, please do not move.” Now he was running his fingertip upon the contour of her cheek, the soft flesh there, it left a tingling sensation.

He said, “You are a glorious creation, like a statue carved by the world’s greatest sculptor.”

Again, her mouth parted slightly as she went to speak, but again he beckoned her to be silent.

He said, “Come back tomorrow … and make sure you take your facial piercings out—we’ll shoot some photos. Make the appointment with Mademoiselle?”

A questioning look came across her face.

He answered her unspoken question: “The receptionist.”

She nodded and was about to speak to try to get some money out of him, but he cut her off.

“What is your name?” he said.

“Jasmine.”

“Lovely. You will refer to me as Monsieur. Just ‘Monsieur.’“ He paused and his piercing eyes grazed her face once more. “That is all,” he said. “We are done talking today.” He stood, went to the door and opened it to allow her out.

She was relieved that at least she hadn’t been assaulted or asked to perform any “favors.”

She walked to the front counter and approached the receptionist, whom the man had referred to as Mademoiselle. “He wants me to come back tomorrow,” she said to the mousey lady.

“And you don’t want to.…” the mousey lady replied, noticing the expression on Jasmine’s face.

“Why should I?”

“Because if Monsieur chose you, then there is something special about you. He doesn’t do it often. He has the eye,” she said while pointing to her own left eye. “He made Tyria into a star, you know. That’s right, Tyria came from this agency. Maybe it could happen to you. The stars are within your reach.”

That grabbed Jasmine’s attention. Tyria. The supermodel. Everyone knew Tyria—on the covers of hundreds of magazines, wearing all the ridiculously priced fashion clothing on all the most important fashion runways.

Tyria was definitely the most beautiful, highest-status supermodel in the entire world.

“That’s right,” Mademoiselle said, looking her straight in the eyes. “Tyria got her start here.” Mademoiselle lifted the pencil in her hand. “I’ll put you down for tomorrow at two o’clock.”

Jasmine nodded. She suddenly noticed that Mademoiselle was sitting in a wheelchair.

As she opened the doors to the outside, some ordinary-looking guy in his mid-twenties was standing in the parking lot with a broom and dustpan. A janitor, she thought with a sneer, probably doesn’t have any money. The air was crisp and smelled like autumn. The man looked boring and poor, so she chose to ignore him—but he called out to her, “Hey, do you mind if I talk to you for a moment?”

“I guess,” she replied dismissively.

He stood beside her and in a hushed tone, said, “I don’t think you should come back—I’ve been watching the people here. I think there’s something strange about them, something they don’t let people see—I haven’t found out what it is yet. And I don’t think that you should.”

She twirled, putting on the vicious scowl she had learned how to do on the street. “And who the hell are you?”

“My name is Trena. Nice to meet you. I’m kind of the janitor here, but hopefully not for long. I’m saving up enough money to move.”

“And where is it that you’re going? Maybe I could go with you.” She cocked her head in the way that she knew was very alluring. Maybe this sucker is my ticket out of here, she thought.

“To Utah. There is a colony out there that is pure and moral. This society that man has created is corrupt. It can go to hell for all I care.”

“A cult?”

“No, it’s not a cult.”

She didn’t push it.

As the man continued talking, Jasmine was thinking, Great, another one of these idiots who’s decided they’re going to save me.

He said, “Lots of drugs and sexual things go on inside there.”

She sneered and replied, “Sounds like my idea of a good time.”

“You don’t mean that. Drugs and loveless sex are sin. And sin corrupts the body and soul. If you allow it in, it will push you along the wrong path.”

“Well, I think I can handle it.”

“No, you will lose control.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“In my religion, we call it ‘the allure of the forbidden.’ It calls like a siren, and tricks you into crashing into the rocks. But I can offer you a different way. An escape. A path of righteousness. Redemption.”

“Uh, okay. You’re a janitor, right?” She rolled her eyes in disdain, then began to walk away.

He called to her back, “Just watch out for Monsieur. Something’s not right about him. I just haven’t figured out what it is yet.…”

~*~

The next day, when Jasmine returned, the office lobby was empty.

Mademoiselle saw her and grinned her biggest fake smile. She said, “Please, sit. Monsieur is very busy and cannot see you right now. But come, we shall have a fun time. We shall have tea and chat for a bit.”

Jasmine sat on the couch and Mademoiselle wheeled up to the coffee table in her wheelchair, and gazed upon Jasmine’s face. Mademoiselle’s eyes widened with blatant adoration.

As she poured tea, Mademoiselle murmured, “You are indeed so very beautiful. You are almost inhuman. I truly envy you. Are my eyes green?”

Jasmine leaned forward and tilted her head slightly, then said, “No, brown … and a little bloodshot.”

“Oh my sweet dear, even with your bitchy words, you have the face of an angel.”

“A fallen angel,” Jasmine replied automatically, before sipping from her cup.

“Yes, you are definitely more beautiful than most of the girls in the agency. I’m sure you will make many enemies. They’ve already begun to say nasty things about you … behind your back. The girls here tend to get jealous real quickly.”

“Already? Well they shouldn’t be jealous of me. I know I’m not as beautiful as people say.”

Now Mademoiselle was gazing at her and not speaking, so to break the silence, Jasmine said, “Pardon me for asking, but why are you in a wheelchair?” Jasmine was sure it was probably rude, but that was okay, because she loved being rude.

“Monsieur paralyzed me so I wouldn’t run away.” She smirked.

Jasmine laughed nervously at her joke.

Then the Mademoiselle said, “Actually, I was in an accident.…”

Jasmine noticed that there was something bizarre about Mademoiselle. Something in the eyes. A kind of emptiness.

Mademoiselle checked her wristwatch, then said, “Monsieur will see you now.”

~*~

As she walked into the room, Monsieur was sitting at his desk with a small plate of pinkish paste in front of him.

He beckoned her to sit on the couch, which had a purple blanket draped over it. His eyes looked droopy. He said, “Tell me, Jasmine, have you ever heard of the legend of Pygmalion?”

“No.”

He sneered in forgiving contempt. “Of course you haven’t—you probably haven’t even been to school within the past year. Well, Pygmalion, my little dove, was an ancient Greek sculptor. He grew to love one of his statues so much, that it came to life.”

He recited these words, as if he had memorized them:

“To the statue’s ears he hung earrings and strings of pearls upon the breast. He adorned her with a luxurious dress, and she looked even more beautiful than when unclothed. He laid her on a couch spread with cloths of Tyrian dye, and called her his wife, and put her head upon a pillow of the softest feathers, as if she could enjoy their softness.”

“What’s Tyrian dye?”

“You’re sitting on it. Tyrian dye is a form of purple. Purple used to symbolize royalty back in the Roman times. Clothing dyed with Tyrian purple was limited to the upper classes. That’s why I grew in love with the name, ‘Tyria.’ I made Tyria. Before me, she was nothing.”

“So I’ve heard. So what’s the story? Did you find her like you did with me, or did she come to you?”

“I saw her sitting alone in a coffee shop, looking lonely. Her beauty called out to me.”

Jasmine put on an expression of stunned disbelief. “Well, isn’t that how all the great models were discovered? … They didn’t even want to model. But their friends talked them into it.” She stuck her tongue to the inside of her cheek.

“Ah, I see that you’re on to me.”

“And the real story is? …”

“The real story is that she didn’t come from very glamorous circumstances. I don’t speak of it.”

She felt let down. “Okay,” she replied.

Jasmine had never been a young soon-to-be-model, sitting in a coffee shop, serenely waiting to be discovered.

Hardly. She’d come from what was called a “troubled” home.

And when Jasmine was sixteen, she was on the streets, and no one, it seems, adored her then, no one watched her sitting in coffee shops. But they were o-so-willing to exploit her.

She was seventeen now.

She had a hard time figuring out the difference between adoration and exploitation. Sometimes she wondered if there even was one.

Monsieur was licking his fingertips. The snobby glitterati liked to mix the drug, purple lotus, with strawberry flavoring and lick at it. They called it “ambrosia.”

Through half-closed lids, he watched her and slurred, “We are all trapped, aren’t we? Just as surely as if we had chains wrapped around our wrists.”

“You’re high on lotus.”

“Very much so. But it only serves to tear away the veil of sobriety. Now I see the truth in all its glorious cruelty. And I see a kind of beauty in it.”

“You’re talking poetic crap.”

“Melancholy is a beautiful sensation my dear.”

“I know.”

He stood, picked up a small camera, and approached her. “Stand for me. Stay still.” He was tracing the line of her jaw. “Such a strong face you have. It is ferocious in its beauty.”

“Rarrrr.”

“Stay still!” The anger in his voice shocked her. He was taking pictures of her now. His voice became quieter. “Please, try to breath as little as possible. Oh how I wish I could make you not breathe at all. I want you to remain innocent forever.”

Little did he know that she was not innocent at all.

He noticed the sad expression that had overtaken her face. “Yes, my little darling,” he said. “That’s it … look mournful.”

She allowed the feeling to overtake her.

“Yes, that’s the expression I love so much. You look like a child who has been abandoned by her mother.”

That sudden unexpected phrase hit her hard in the chest. She wasn’t expecting the tears that sprang forth and rolled down her cheeks.

He took more pictures. Now he was saying, “Do not move. Just like that. A statue. My little mannequin. You are trapped. Paralyzed. You cannot escape. I ask you, do I not repulse you?”

She opened her mouth to speak.

“Shut up, whore.”

She stood perfectly still, except for the slightest trembling and the thumping pulse of her heartbeat.

Monsieur said, “You wish to flee, because I repulse you. You order your legs to move, but they do not respond. That’s it. Stay still. You are paralyzed.”

Like the mademoiselle, she thought.

She stood like that for several minutes, frozen as he ran his fingertips along her face.

His adoring gaze glided upon her soft skin.

He was whispering these words:

“Her lily hand, her rosy cheeks,

Her tears resembling the pearly dew of midnight.

Her eyes like emeralds hidden in darkness.

Sweetly standing, mouth pursed as if to beg a kiss.

Her raven hair like threads of silk dancing on her breath.

In wide-eyed sleep she is beautiful.”

(His voice began to quiver.)

“Her breasts like two undiscovered worlds,

Alabaster skin enriched with azure blood.

But his eyes, in mutiny, restrain him.

He wishes,

That her snowy breasts were bare

And ready to be spoiled.

And that her fair eyes would be

Sweet smiling in delight and in vacancy,

To pierce his frail heart, like starry light.

But his eyes, his betrayers, cannot be satisfied.”

He took a step back.

“You look just like her, but you are not her,” he said, shaking his head. “That is all for today. Go speak with Mademoiselle.”

He turned and walked out of the room, leaving her alone.

~*~

The next day she attended her first “runway” party, which Mademoiselle had invited her to. All the girls in the agency were invited. It was a weekly event. There was a room in the building with a fashion runway that the girls used for practice. A portion of the girls would participate in a runway show while the others would stand around and watch and party. It usually wasn’t really a fashion show, but more of a social get together. The alcohol was free-flowing, and purple lotus was available for anyone who desired it.

Jasmine stood beside Monsieur on the terrace, about thirty feet away from the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. They looked down at the crowd of about fifty inebriated models standing around on the marble floor.

Everyone was dressed in gloriously-colored or gloriously-black evening gowns, revealing all kinds of cleavage.

Monsieur scowled and said, “These people have no souls. You should feel sorry for them.”

He watched with mild interest as a girl stumbled over another girl, who for some reason was crawling on all fours on the ground.

He said, “They all starve themselves, you know. In this business, an eating disorder is a virtue. Let’s play a game of ‘count the ribs.’“

“Shut up!” she shouted, then she playfully punched his arm.

He grinned. “You’ll need an eating disorder to fit in, so do you have one?”

“No, I’m just too poor to eat.”

“Ah.” He looked out again at the crowd with mild interest.

She gazed out upon the crowd of hollow-cheeked wanna-be models. Occasionally, one of those below would look up at her with hatred in their eyes—they were obviously jealous, Jasmine thought.

Monsieur turned his head and noticed something. He nodded his head for Jasmine to see. “There,” he said.

She looked down to where he gestured. There were two girls bickering. One girl, with her brown hair in buns, was standing with her hands on her hips, yelling at the dirty-blond girl in front of her.

Monsieur said, “The Mademoiselle’s job is to create envy. It is like she is an artist …” Down below, the brown-haired girl flipped the middle finger at the other one, then stormed off. “… Much like I create the art of the plastic people, she nurtures that storm of passion they call envy.” He chuckled. “The green-eyed monster.”

Jasmine tried to keep her voice and her breathing calm, but there was a kind of excitement coming up inside of her. She asked, “Why do you like to make envy?”

“Because it is glorious and raw. Human beings are just another animal, but they are the most beautiful one, and they are most beautiful when they are either angry or mournful.”

“Those are my only two emotions.”

He chuckled. “Then you are the most beautiful of them all.”

She decided to just ask him: “Do you want to fuck me? If you do, you have to pay.”

He looked shocked, then repulsed. “Absolutely not—you’re a filthy animal.”

She nodded. She was no longer surprised by anything anymore. Some men got their satisfaction from things other than the sexual act. Maybe Monsieur was one of them.

Monsieur thought for a moment. “I want you to be the center of attention at our next party.…”

“Oh? How would that happen? And why?”

“I want to make you the finale of the show. Imagine how much envy that will create! They’ll glare at you like a pack of sharks!”

“And that’s a good thing?”

He chuckled. “It’s marvelous! You will wear wings, my dear! Beautiful, black, succubus demon wings! And we will use a wire to lower you onto the runway!”

Jasmine gasped, then said, “Oh my god.”

“God, my dear, has nothing to do with it. I will get everything together within the next few days. You will have to be fit for the costume.” He nodded with finality, and seemed to have grown tired of the subject. He gazed back again upon the party and placed his hand firmly on top of Jasmine’s head.

Three of the girls below were bent over, laughing hysterically.

Laughing looks like crying—she remembered the phrase.

Monsieur reached into the pocket of his Armani suit, then spoke again: “So the newest way to take purple lotus is to put it into a very fine powder. You can absorb it through your eyes, you know.… Turn,” he said.

As she turned to look at him, he blew a cloud of violet powder from the palm of his hand into her eyes.

A flash of white light clouded her eyes, then they began to tear up, the warm liquid rolling down.

Then a rush of ecstasy, rushing then flowing, pumping and tingling up through her head.

Her legs faltered slightly.

She was overwhelmed, standing frozen and twitching. He brought his fingertip over and drew a tear from off her cheek, drew it to his own mouth and licked at it and swallowed it. He grinned, leaning his head back as the sensation came over him. “Mmmmmm. Your tears taste sweet. You have chemical tears.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls you blow clouds of lotus into.”

Now he was licking at her cheeks and she allowed him, merely for the sheer tactile pleasure of it. She leaned into his tongue.

He had brought his left arm back down to his side—his left hand, she noticed, was balled into a fist.

“I know just the right amount to give you. If I had given you too much, you’d be dead right now. But just a little more and you would fall into sleep.” And he opened his left fist and blew another cloud into her eyes.

She awoke on the purple-covered couch in the back office, alone. It was only about twenty minutes later, but she didn’t remember anything.

She stumbled out to speak with Mademoiselle.

~*envy writhes like worms*~

She was provided with an appointment the next day to be fitted for the costume.

The wardrobe guy brought it out of a back storage room. He said there were all sorts of things back there that were meant to be a surprise and that the door was locked. Monsieur and Mademoiselle were off on business for the day, so he had to get the key from Caitlin, the substitute receptionist, and immediately bring it back. Caitlin was one of the models who had it in for Jasmine.

The dress was glorious and resplendent—a Christian Dior black silk taffeta evening gown, tight on top, but flaring below. Designs of swirls covered it, shifting on the eyes.

The black wings were connected to the harness that would hold her in the air, and combined with the dress, it made her look exotic and intense.

After she had been fitted, Jasmine got back into her street clothes and approached Caitlin, the receptionist. “I need the key,” Jasmine said.

“What key?”

“You know which one.”

Caitlin looked at Jasmine. “I’m not supposed to let anyone in, because it’s not ready yet.”

Jasmine played it cool. “I know, but I need in. For a surprise. I don’t know if Monsieur will be mad or if he’ll love it, though. So don’t tell anyone.” She said those things because she knew that Caitlin would relish the possibility of Jasmine falling out of favor. The agency seemed to run on backstabbing. “Look, it’s almost Cheryl’s shift. You can blame it on her if you want.” Cheryl was Caitlin’s greatest enemy in the agency. It seemed every girl in the agency had that one other girl who they absolutely hated.

Caitlin thought for only two seconds, then said, “Okay, but remember, it wasn’t me.” She slid the key in Jasmine’s direction.

~*porcelain twins*~

Jasmine looked around the inside of the room. And she immediately felt a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

The room was filled with about twenty mannequins. She realized immediately that they were all replicas of her, with her own face, possessed of various frozen expressions—many of sadness, some, strangely of anger, standing with swayed backs, hands on hips, the fingers were longer than her actual fingers in real life, she noticed—they were naked and pale, all arranged to gaze upon an empty space in the center of the room.

Timidly, she walked to the center of the room, and stood there, feeling the hair on her arms prickle.

Serenely and calmly, they contemplated her. They did not blink. She imagined that, if they weren’t frozen, they would sneer, because she was ugly to them. She was too fleshy and biological.

She touched one of the mannequin’s wet-looking eyeballs with her fingertip, fascinated because it didn’t blink.

The Monsieur’s voice boomed behind her: “That’s the most important part, the eyes.”

She jumped in surprise—she turned to see him standing in the doorway, and not knowing what to say, she mumbled, “They don’t blink.”

He answered, “Yes, that’s what I like about them. A girl’s eyes are one of her most beautiful features. I also detest the act of breathing, so I love that they never take in and out those breaths of air, you know—always heaving in and out—disgusting vile, wretched biological beings.…” He shook his head. “But do forgive my manners. You must be wondering why I am here when you thought I was away for the day.”

She tried to reply, but only a whimper came out.

“Well, I’ve been pulling your strings, so to speak. I set you up. I find such games amusing. I knew you wouldn’t be able to help yourself—you didn’t really think it would be that easy to trick Caitlin did you?” He clucked his tongue. “Curiosity killed the pussy cat, my dear. Remember, I am always in control. There are no accidents. There is nothing you can slip by me, there are no secrets you can hide from me.” He suddenly switched his demeanor and flashed a huge smile. He started to walk towards her. “Ah,” he proclaimed, “Tomorrow will be spectacular, my dear! I can’t wait to see you gliding through the air, and I will have the mannequins standing all around you on the floor watching you. It will be an army of you! You aren’t scared of heights are you?” He was running his fingers through her hair.

She composed herself. “No, not really. It sounds fun.”

“Ah, good, because I’d be scared myself. I believe that only fools and the naive wouldn’t be. But, I’ve come up with a new idea. When they lower you onto the stage, I will pretend to cut your wings with a large set of sheers! The wings are connected to the harness and are designed to break away. Ah! You see, you shall be the fallen angel with clipped wings! It will be marvelous. A little bit of drama to amuse the jaded. Well, okay, now on to more important things. I’ve bought you a bottle of whiskey. I want you to get drunk to amuse me. But I must be off to a meeting in thirty minutes.”

~*~

The next day, Jasmine stood in the ground-floor audience, watching the procession of female flesh down the raised runway—the mannequin replicas of her had been arranged around the runway and she stood amongst them. The mannequins had been “clothed” with strategically placed X’s and slivers of electrical tape. The runway models on the other hand, wore glorious, 18th century French inspired short skirts, mixed with modern touches.

It filled her with envy.

The models’ long legs were made longer by stiletto heels, criss-crossing like dolphins.

It filled her with envy.

Their three-feet-tall, ornamental wigs modeled over a cage frame using horse hair and copious amounts of powder.

It made the envy writhe inside of her like tapeworms.

But she just had to watch, at least to assess the competition. Monsieur had wanted her to stay backstage, “to preserve the mystery,” but she had insisted on watching the show. It was almost time for her to walk backstage, don her dress and wings and have the strings attached. Right now she was just wearing a simple, silk lilac shirt over a black, short see-thru lace skirt.

The envy was too strong, the nervousness making her breathe too fast.

She knew what to do. Monsieur had handed her a plastic baggy of powdered lotus before heading backstage to talk to that janitor guy, Trena—he was the one who was supposed to operate the suspension gadgetry.

“Hey,” Jasmine said while tapping a statuesque girl on the shoulder. “Blow me,” she said and giggled, as she brought the baggy out.

“Sure, I’ll give you a blow job, if you do me too,” the girl said, while holding her palm out. The girl had a heavily-powdered face and a beauty mark drawn in above her lip.

Jasmine grinned and nodded, even though she really didn’t want to share. She poured the violet powder into the girl’s hand.

Jasmine stared wide-eyed at the girl’s plump, soft lips—in anticipation Jasmine watched as the lips pursed gently, felt as the breath came out, blowing the cloud of pleasure into her eyes.

Flash of light shaking through her body, then her stance shimmered—she blinked a long blink, then when she opened her eyes again, the world was new—everyone seemed surrounded by haloes of light. Human beings no longer looked as they used to—their necks were longer, their fingertips rippled like waves—and it seemed to her that they might all fly away at any moment—it seemed to Jasmine that everyone in the room had become very much like dream creatures.

She felt her eyes well up, then the tears began to roll down her cheeks.

She started to chuckle to herself.

The girl who had blown the lotus cloud watched her expectantly, biting her lip.

But then a moving white shape caught Jasmine’s drugged attention—she shifted her head upward and to the left.

Yes, it was Monsieur in his white suit with large black wings on his back, gliding through the air—he rested to a stop then swayed in midair.

She squinted her eyes, trying to focus her blurry vision.

For some reason, Monsieur was hooked up to the strings that were supposed to be for Jasmine.

He’s dead, she realized, wondering slowly how that could have happened. A stream of blood oozed out of Monsieur’s nose, branching off over the two sides of his mouth and dribbling off his chin, dripping down the front of his suit and ruining the leopard-spotted handkerchief sticking out of his chest pocket. A piece of paper covered his left eye, but his right eye was open wide, seemingly in an expression of terror, his mouth in a crooked grimace, arms frozen half-bent, with his fingers in a half-clawed position. The body seemed stiff—rigor mortis, Jasmine thought. The shock hit her then, a bit of a delayed reaction.

She had the sudden bizarre thought, that, upon seeing a picture of himself like that, Monsieur would have declared himself utterly beautiful.

Everyone else had seen the body now, too. They were whispering to each other while gazing upwards. Someone somewhere giggled, probably thinking it was some kind of joke. People seemed dazed. Jasmine doubted there was a single sober person in the whole room.

Jasmine was giddy, swaying, the drug intoxication taking over her. She wondered who had killed the Monsieur. Then she had an idea to make a speech, because why not? She felt like being dramatic—utterly, unapologetically, overwhelmingly dramatic.

She walked up to the announcer’s booth beside the runway and pushed the guy there aside.

She leaned forward into the microphone. “Behold!” she proclaimed, while sweeping her arm—she was tottering a little from her inebriation, “The Monsieur is dead, murdered!” She wiped a tear from her eye.

There was a collective gasp, and a few giggles—they must have thought it was a prank.

So she said, “This is no joke. This depraved, sinful party has descended into madness, as surely it must.”

She turned her head as some lady screamed.

The Mademoiselle’s face was warped in terror. The crowd of mildly shocked models, with delicately plucked brows arching, stepped aside to allow her to roll past.

Mademoiselle slammed full force into a girl who didn’t move out of the way fast enough.

People dumbly watched Mademoiselle tumble out of the chair and fall to the ground.

Mademoiselle struggled to get back to her chair while sobbing.

Jasmine turned her eyes away from this boring, pathetic display … to see the janitor, Trena, with his head craned up above the crowd, staring at her.

She stared back, and for a long moment she was frozen in his eyes. Something about him excited her. He looked more ferocious than she had remembered. She liked ferocious.

Jasmine leaned into the microphone. “But,” she proclaimed. “But … the question remains: who committed this horrible, vile, ugly act of murder?” She paused, for dramatic effect, scanning her eyes throughout the room, bouncing from point to point, meeting the beautifully-kohl-lined eyes of numerous part-mouthed beauties—their droopy eyes shifted back over hers—they were all intoxicated to the point of gullibility. “My sisters, it is exactly who you think.…” All the girls in the room took a collective breath of rage. Jasmine smirked a little at her joke. “Yes,” she continued. “It is your enemy: the girl who envies you, the girl who has it in for you, who has been working behind the scenes to destroy you—she seethes with envy, she watches you with fire in her narrowed eyes, narrowed with the anger that consumes her. Your flesh crawls when you think of her—that evil bitch—her eyes are green with envy. Yes, it is she who did this.…” Jasmine stopped speaking and lowered her head solemnly, and waited.…

One girl walked a few steps and tugged the magnificently-coiffed hair of another girl.

Another girl took off her shoes, then ran across the room to slap the face of another girl. The sound of the smack rang throughout the room.

Then the room erupted into violence and blood.

Models were slapping and scratching and pulling. Screams of rage and pain filled the air.

Jasmine spied one girl with a bloodied ear gnashed between her perfectly white and straight teeth.

Everyone was completely ignoring Jasmine, and as she turned her head to the right, she slowly realized that Trena was standing beside her.

“Did you do it?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “I’m leaving. I want you to come with me.”

They snaked their way out of the room, past the clusters of fighting girls—whose clothes were ripped—unstylishly—whose elaborate hairdos were tousled.

As they stood outside in the dark, Jasmine was at a loss as to what to do next. She turned to walk back into the building.

“Wait,” Trena said. “I always knew there was something weird about Monsieur. I found his journal while I was cleaning. I will read you some things I circled.” They went to stand under one of the lights on the side of the building. Trena brought a little leather journal out of his pocket and showed her a page. “It is his handwriting, see?” He opened it to where he had stuck a piece of paper and read, “Her name is Jasmine, and she definitely has the most beautiful face out of all the others. Of course, I think she is most beautiful when she stands still. Oh, but she loves to talk, and as soon as she does, she becomes ugly to me.”

Trena stopped, then said, “There’s more, wait.” He turned a few pages and began to read again: “As soon as she said, ‘do you want to fuck me?’ I knew that she was unpure and that she was nothing like my Sienna. I knew that I had just a few more weeks of infatuation left before I had to turn mean. Because no matter what, they all must be discarded in the end, for none of them are my lovely Sienna, and none of them should pretend to be. And Mademoiselle is most definitely not Sienna, and being married to that old catcher’s mitt is a living hell.”

(Jasmine’s jaw had dropped.)

Trena said, “Monsieur often takes time out to insult Mademoiselle, I’ve noticed.” He continued reading:

“I had a lovely time with Jasmine yesterday. The drug works much better now. It seems to be much better tolerated when blown into the eyes. I’ve decided to no longer attempt to use it in an injectable form, especially after what happened to Mademoiselle’s legs. I think it may just be that Mademoiselle is hypersensitive to it. She is weak. And a bitch. I dosed Jasmine with some purple lotus, then I blew the paralysis drug into her eyes, and she stayed frozen in place for fifteen minutes, like an obedient little mannequin. I carried her into the storage room, then I stood and watched her, surrounded by all the mannequins I made. It was great! I felt like I was enveloped by her, almost like I was inside of her. She is so beautiful. I touched her cheek, but I touched nothing else. I just can’t bring myself to go further, because she is not Sienna. Sienna is always in the back of my mind no matter how hard I try! I know she is still waiting for me, somewhere, in some damn hospital somewhere. I pray her family will die soon, so that she will be freed and return to me. Her catalepsy shouldn’t require her to be imprisoned—it makes her an even better person than all these so-called “normal” people, all of these disgusting girls that go by like a parade in front of me! I’ve never found another person like her. They are pale facsimiles. Ah, Sienna, my darling, I shall never forget you. We shall be together.”

Jasmine tried to compose herself. “I don’t understand,” she said. “What is catalepsy?”

“From what I’ve read, this woman named Sienna has catatonic schizophrenia. It is a kind of schizophrenia where the patient sometimes freezes in one position—sometimes for hours or even days.… Sienna was Monsieur’s childhood sweetheart … before they put her away in the hospital. He hasn’t seen her since, according to what I read. I think that’s why he did that to you. It’s not right.”

“And so you killed him?” Jasmine asked.

“He’s not dead.”

“But the blood.”

“I just had to punch him in the face, you see … after I froze him. I think I may have broken his nose. It is truly an amazing drug he invented. He didn’t even flinch! He told me before, how terrified he would be on that suspension line, so of course, I strung him up! But he won’t be bothering us. I left a note taped over his eye telling him I found his journal. I told him I’d leave and he’d never hear from us again if he made no trouble for us. The Monsieur is very shrewd—he would never do anything to mess up his little slice of paradise he’s worked so hard to build. But that’s assuming you’ll come with me. I think you are so beautiful. I want a life with you, and I’m willing to look the other way on the Monsieur to do it, but if not, then I must follow my moral duty.”

They started walking towards Trena’s car.

As they walked, behind them, all the bickering suddenly grew quiet … then Monsieur’s voice boomed over the sound system, shakily saying, “Now now, young ladies! Behave yourselves! I am not dead, see? It was all just a joke I played … to amuse myself!”

Jasmine reached her hand around Trena’s arm as they walked—the silk of her shirt felt soft, shifting on her skin.

Swan-white of heart, a sphinx no mortal knows,

My throne is in the heaven’s deep sky;

I hate all movements that disturb my pose,

And I smile not ever, nor do I cry.

—Baudelaire, “Beauty”

Chapter 8

Return to the Womb

The phone call came just as Mary was coming home from the mall with her best friend, Tina.

It was Mr. Ronan—he was back in town for a short time and he wondered if Mary wanted some extra money to babysit his daughter, Alicia, for a few hours the next few days.

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my godddddddd, thought Mary, as her heart began to beat wildly and her breath quickened. She used to babysit Alicia last summer, and Alicia had been the cutest, most adorable baby Mary had ever seen. But then Alicia’s family had moved to California and Mary missed her soooooooo much.

Mr. Ronan said, “Alicia wants to talk to you. Hold on.…”

Then … “Hello,” said the little girl’s voice on the other end of the phone. It was Baby Alicia. “How is my Mary?”

Mary felt the sudden flood of emotions. “Oh, Alicia!” she blurted out. “I ache for you—it is like there is an emptiness inside of me that only you can fill!”

Alicia giggled, and in her little girl voice, said, “Mary Mary, I wuv you.”

Mary’s best friend, Tina, was watching television in the other room, so Mary privately set up the time that Mr. Ronan would bring Alicia over to Mary’s house. She didn’t want Tina to find out. She wanted Alicia all to herself.

When the phone call was completed, she walked into the living room. Tina said, “Who was that?” and Mary replied, “Oh, just Dad’s new girlfriend,” and she made a yuck-face.

The next day, Mr. Ronan dropped Alicia off at Mary’s house. He looked a lot skinnier than the last time she saw him.

“Bye bye Daddy. I wuv you,” Alicia said and waved sadly as Mr. Ronan left.

Mary led Alicia into the living room, where Alicia stood on the floor and Mary sat on the couch.

Alicia’s facial expression changed and she suddenly seemed a lot more mature than her two years. “Jesus Christ,” she said. “I’m glad he’s finally gone.”

Mary: “My dear, sweet Alicia! It’s been so long since I last saw you—why it’s been a whole year! You’ve grown so much! Now you can talk!”

Alicia rolled her eyes and said, “Of course I can talk. I’m a baby genius. And I see you’ve grown as well. It is nice to see you again.”

Mary pouted. “Nice? Just nice?” She had expected more of a reaction. It almost felt like it wasn’t the same Baby Alicia who would giggle and squeal while they played peekaboo or sang, “Old MacDonald had a Farm.”

Alicia screamed, “Nice! Yes, I said nice! What’s wrong with nice?” Even though she was a baby genius, she still had many of the same emotions as an ordinary two-year-old and could be quick to anger. Then Alicia looked sad. “I’m sorry,” she said in a pitiful little kid voice. “I’m just preoccupied with a lot of things I’ve been thinking of. I have lots of things I need to tell you.” Alicia had carried in an orange aluminum can, and she held it up to Mary. “Won’t you have some orange soda?”

Mary looked at the can. “Why, yes, I’ll have some. Thank you.”

Alicia: “I already opened it for you, all by myself!”

Mary thought Alicia was acting a little bit strange, but she shrugged and said, “Okayyyyy.” She took the can from Alicia’s hand and began drinking. It was yummy and cold. “Mmmm,” she said.

Alicia: “You like it? I picked the oranges myself!”

Mary was caught off guard. “Really?” she asked.

Alicia rolled her eyes, and said, “Of course not! What are you, stupid?”

Mary pouted and looked offended.

Alicia: “Fine fine, yes, I’m cranky. I’m sorry, okay?”

Mary: “Okay.” And she sipped some more of the soda.

Alicia sat staring at her as she drank. Then she said, “Hey, will you lift me up to the coffee table?”

Mary lifted up little Alicia and set her on the edge of the coffee table. Then Mary said, “Hey, no more diapers for you? What a big girl you are!”

Alicia rolled her eyes. “Of course not. I am past that stage of development.” Then she looked thoughtful. “I am ready for the next stage.…”

Mary: “What stage is that?”

Alicia: “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Mary: “Oh? Okay, then, talk to me.”

Alicia: “First, you have to know that you’re special. You’re Mary of the violet hair, and you’re special, and I don’t just mean you’re going to make head cheerleader.”

Mary shook her head. “Oh, I’m just an ordinary girl.”

Alicia: “Hardly. Do you ever think that strange things keep happening to you?”

Mary blinked her violet-colored eyes, thinking. “No more than anyone else.”

Alicia shook her head. “So innocent. So naive. I was once like you.”

Mary huffed. “You’re not so mature! You’re still a kid, just like me.”

Alicia: “Of that I am aware, dear. But perhaps I have already attained a level of awareness you shall never attain.”

Mary: “And perhaps you’re full of it, little brat! Didn’t you just learn to walk a little while ago?” Mary was mad. She didn’t like being looked down on by a two-year-old. She was insecure enough as it was, without that.

Alicia: “I apologize. I had forgotten how threatening my intelligence can be. But let us move on to the matter at hand. We haven’t much time.”

Mary blinked confusedly, then said, “You talk funny. But I don’t know what you mean. We have three hours left. Do you want to watch some Hoppy Bunny shows? I have a dvd.…”

Alicia shook her head and looked exasperated. “No! I need to discuss some things with you! But first I have a gift for you.” She reached around her neck and took off a pacifier on a ribbon, then held it out to Mary. “This is my old pacifier. I wanted you to have it. I have no use for it. You will have use for it when you come down.…”

Mary was struck with a strange, ticklish sensation inside her head. She giggled, then her eyes became teary. “Awwwwww, thank you, you sweet little thing!” She took it delicately from Alicia’s hand.

Alicia grinned, then said, “Why don’t you try it out?”

Mary shrugged, then giggled and put the pacifier in her mouth. She looked at Mary and made a goofy face.

Alicia giggled then pointed at Mary and exclaimed, “Who’s da baby?” She giggled some more as Mary reached over and tapped her nose. Then Alicia said, “But I have many things it is necessary for me to inform you of. Please be compliant and absorb what I say, okay?”

Mary arched a brow, then took the pacifier out of her mouth, said, “Whatever!” then put it back in her mouth.

Alicia: “First of all, you are a special girl, and please do not argue that point.”

Mary nodded.

Alicia: “We are both special. We are each precursors of where the human race is going.”

Mary took the pacifier out, said, “Precursors?” then put it back in.

Alicia sighed. “Yes, we are the first people. The first special people.”

Alicia paused to let Mary soak that in.

Then Alicia continued: “Human kind is progressing. We are evolving in a sense. We are moving toward the next step. We are like children who are finally beginning to grow up. I know you don’t understand, but listen, I will try to explain.…”

Alicia took a deep breath, then continued. “It is no accident that we were brought together. It is no accident that you have violet hair, and that your dreams have been crossing over into what we call ‘reality.…’ Now listen to me Mary, I am the smartest baby that has ever lived. You have to believe what I’m saying. I am a product of a ‘conjoining.’ I was created from the combined cells of my family. Two of my parents were powerful twins, named Lotus and Jasmine. They both have strong powers, just like you. Whatever you want to call it—’psychic abilities,’ ‘powers,’ ‘energy’—they both have it. They are among the strongest in the world right now, alongside you … and me. When I was created, I inherited a combination of their abilities, but my genes were diluted by other cells that were used to create me. I was also incubated artificially—I am basically a test tube baby. I never inhabited a womb.…”

Alicia looked more deeply into Mary’s eyes. “Mary, I am unstable.… I am unequipped for the upcoming corruption, so I cannot help humankind moved forward.”

Mary shook her head in confusion, and suddenly realizing how silly she looked, took the pacifier out of her mouth.

Alicia: “Have you ever felt a feeling of emptiness? Did you ever wonder how you could fill that emptiness? Maybe the answer is not to fill it at all, but to empty yourself entirely … into other people.”

Mary: “No, you fill it with love.”

Alicia: “This is all my way of preparing you for what I’m about to do, and to warn you.”

Mary: “Warn me about what?”

Alicia: “The corruption is coming.”

Mary: “The corruption?”

Alicia: “Yes, when the vulgarity of this world attacks you, when your own body betrays you, it tears your innocence away and crushes it!”

Mary: “You’re exaggerating!”

Alicia sighed. “So naive.…”

Mary scowled. “Don’t give me that! What do you know, anyway? Corruption is still years off for you!”

Alicia: “And yet I am cursed with the foreknowledge. Tell me, if Adam and Eve had known beforehand the true ramifications of their actions, would they have eaten the fruit of the tree of knowledge?” She sighed. “Perhaps I overstate myself. But I do know this, the corruption will come, and I am not going to sit around and wait for it. It’s coming for you too, and I wanted to warn you.…”

Mary stared into Alicia’s tiny face, tiny mouth, tiny nose, big eyes.

Alicia: “I must tell you, I’m cynical, as the American educational system keeps churning out its hordes of illiterate simpletons, half-witted morons drooling on themselves as they sit on their butts, watching their television, the great diversion, the great time-waster. They seem absent of any intelligent thoughts whatsoever, a nation of drones, the great proliferation of the ‘tyranny of mediocrity.’ I don’t want to grow up in this kind of America.”

Mary: “Ohhhhh, just listen to you, you’re just soooooooo much better than all of us stupid people.”

Alicia: “Yes, unfortunately that is true.”

Mary: “Oh, well that’s interesting. Hey, here’s a question: do you still poop your pants?”

Alicia: “Not anymore.”

Mary: “Well I remember I always used to change you when I babysat you.”

Alicia: “Yes, well, that was then and this is now, and now I have a different babysitter.”

Mary looked hurt and pouted, but Alicia dismissed her and continued to speak. “We stand on the brink of possible change. It all rests on you and the two others. I am not strong enough. I don’t want to grow up, I don’t want to go through the corruption, so I’m choosing the other path.…”

Mary: “You’re scaring me! What are you saying? What path?”

Alicia: “There are two kinds of wombs—the biological womb, and the true womb. The true womb is the dream world before the formation of our physical bodies. We choose to create the idea of ourselves, and when we die we choose to go back to its oblivion. People like you collect dream energy while they sleep. It’s like it’s all there, collecting under your bed—nymphs and dreams and cherubs and monsters under the bed and phantom lovers. It only needs to be released … like with Pandora. You hold Pandora’s box inside of you.”

“Oh!” Mary exclaimed.

Alicia: “We can bring the dream world over into our reality, and bring about a ‘conjoining.’ You can will it to happen, if you want it enough, when it is time.… There is a power in you that grows as you mature.…”

Mary: “How do I bring it over?”

Alicia: “You must allow yourself to be corrupted. You must engage in the physical conjoining, the intertwining, the piercing, of sex. You must bring everything together in your body—dreams and the real world, love and lust, human and plastic and nature, all of the life-force, even the plants, the very stars. You must collect it all inside your body. You must become very much like a ‘womb’ of the new reality. Only after you have been corrupted can you return to innocence and bring the dream world over into our reality. You will undoubtedly stumble and fall. You may not be successful, but you must try.…”

Mary: “But that is impossible.”

Alicia: “Right now it is, but the new reality will be a world of symbolism, where dreams mix with what we know. What is impossible now will become commonplace later, and a lot of that has to do with you.”

Mary: “Why me? Why not you?”

Alicia: “As I said before, I am too unstable. If I ever reached puberty, my power would become too strong and uncontrollable. It would destroy me.”

Mary looked distraught. Then suddenly she lowered her head and closed her eyes, “Oh, I feel dizzy.”

Alicia: “Yes, of course, that’s because I drugged you.”

Mary opened her eyes in surprise and looked at Alicia.

Alicia: “In the orange soda. I slipped you some Purple Lotus. It’s a drug.”

Mary suddenly looked panicked. “I must call 911! Gotta get my stomach pumped, like Tina always does!”

Alicia: “You won’t though. The process has already begun. We are already starting to conjoin. As soon as we got into proximity with each other, the steps were put into motion.…”

Mary screamed.

Alicia: “The drug is inducing a dream state in you, bringing your powers to the fore.…”

Mary started murmuring, “No no no.”

Alicia: “Your powers have grown stronger since we last met, as have mine. We are drawn together, like moths to a flame. Today we will conjoin. Today I will return to the womb. Your womb.…”

Mary merely sat with a goofy grin on her face. She no longer had the urge to flee. It all made sense.

Alicia: “You are not yet ready for the corruption. When I infuse with you, I will fill you with all of my innocence. It will delay the corruption until you are better prepared. But the corruption will still come, once our combined innocence is used up. You must be careful not to waste it.”

Alicia held out her arms and said, “Please hold me. I miss it. Remember how it used to be?”

Mary began making weird cooing noises. Through her eyes, there were two little Alicias. She reached out and picked up the one on the right, then cradled her softly in her arms.

Alicia looked up into Mary’s face and they gazed into each other’s eyes. Alicia’s glowing green eyes met with Mary’s twinkling violet eyes, and at that moment, it was as if the whole world had narrowed into that connection between them.

Alicia: “I’ve always felt like there was something missing in me, keeping me from moving forward. I’ve been reading a lot of psychology lately. I’ve discovered it’s really quite natural for people to desire for a return to an earlier, simpler state—a return to the womb. Freud discovered what he called ‘Thanatos’ or, the ‘death instinct’ … an urge inherent in organic life to restore an earlier state of things that was disturbed by the emergence of life.”

Mary just grinned with a look of dreamy love on her face. “That’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Alicia: “Yes, how peaceful. Rest, sleep, dreams, oblivion. How comforting it would be … to return to the womb … have you ever wished that?”

Mary nodded with an expression of sudden realization. “Yes, I have.…” She bit her lip timidly.

Alicia: “I believe it is the whole reason humans began to dream in the first place. Babies must dream a lot, in the womb. And when we grow up, we still dream, trying to return in our mind to that place.…”

Mary nodded, her eyes growing wider, then she said, “I see. I do. I never realized that before.”

Alicia’s voice took on a note of sadness, and she said, “But I never inhabited a womb. It’s like I was robbed of that experience and there has always been an empty gnawing inside of me because of it. It has to be corrected.…”

Mary couldn’t help but begin crying. Inside her head, it felt like she was floating.

It began to feel like their two bodies were wavering, shimmering, as if they were two flames, dancing and licking at each other.

Alicia: “It will be soon now.… Freud spoke of the ‘life instinct’ and the ‘death instinct,’ both of which are psychological urges. But I believe there is a third major instinct, a biological one, between life and death. I call it the ‘conjoining instinct,’ the biological urge in humans to physically contact and combine with other people and nature in an effort to return to ‘oneness.’ It explains so much. It explains our urge to hug and cuddle. And sex for example, is an effort to combine with the other person, as well as the urge of the man to reenter and combine with the womb. It explains siamese twins, who are compelled to combine with each other inside the womb. It explains why a woman conjoins with the baby she carries inside of her and why it is so painful for them to be separated. And this conjoining instinct is growing more powerful as it is more enabled in our modern world. Blood transfusions, organ transplants, siamese twins, they are all just a product of our biological urge to combine. And this urge to combine runs throughout the universe. That is what gravity is. And we not only want to combine with each other, we want to combine with everything, with all life and nature, with all matter, and even with the dream world. And the more humanity combines, the more siamese twins there are and the more organ transplants, the more the power and the urge grows, much like gravity. And that is why, you, Mary of the violet hair, and me are here right now in this point in human history.”

They looked down at their bodies and it was if they were beginning to melt into each other.

Alicia: “When I conjoin with you, I will return to the womb, and it will be as if I was never born. No one will remember me, only you. I will become one with you.”

Mary said sadly, “Goodbye Alicia.…”

Alicia: “Goodbye, Mary. I wuv you.…”

There is an end of joy and sorrow;

Peace all day long, all night, all morrow,

But never a time to laugh or weep.

The end is come of pleasant places,

The end of tender words and faces,

The end of all, the poppied sleep.

—Swinburne, “Ilicet”

BOOK II

The Corruption of Innocence

O, see what before your eye grows,

Sweet blooms of youth, blush on the rose.

With big eyes, crawling out of the womb.

Crawling on all fours from birth to the tomb.

Now sprouts the tender violet, now strains

the heaving bust,

Before the cruel corruption, the onset of lust,

And the rose’s dewy petals open, yearning,

tempting just

Before that sweet corruption, the onslaught of lust.

Chapter 9

Parts

On the second day of the second week out, Jasmine realized that she loved him. And it was because she loved him that it hurt so much to know that he would shed. But looking into his eyes, she couldn’t stop the feelings.

She had loved once before, but that had been nothing like this. That love had been young and foolish, had left her empty and raw. But this man, this beautiful man—he filled her, completed her, fixed her.

On these days when he was sick, he could often spend the whole day lying in bed. She pressed the wet towel gently to his forehead.

He smiled weakly back at her.

The smile sent shivers up her spine, made the inside of her stomach tickle.

She’d felt that tickle when she’d first met him, too. Then she was actually glad when he’d chosen her as his escort. And she had looked forward to the times they would make love.

She forced a smile. “You look a little weak, Trena,” she said, trying to make it a joke.

He grinned back, barely choked out, “Yeah, just a little bit.”

She made herself smile again and shrugged. “Ah, well, another day of not having to perform ritual.” She watched him.

He hesitated, then smiled. “Yeah.”

She was testing him. Slowly becoming bolder, testing his views of the Ways.

She had begun to resent the Ways, only a few months after she had first joined the commune in the Utah desert after running away from home. Outsiders, predictably, called it “the cult,” but they simply didn’t understand.

Because of the Ways, Trena had to “purify” himself before he could have his heart transplant, which he desperately needed. He had to spend three weeks in “solitude and contemplation,” with only his escort to accompany him, locked inside of their two small rooms in the center of the village. He was even forbidden to contact his family. And during that time, he could very well die while waiting.

She ventured another comment, pressing the towel to his forehead. “Next thing you know you’ll be mixing your mushrooms and karavi and eating pizza on the days of fast.” She fixed him with a fake glare. “I always knew you were trouble.” He smiled slightly at that. And then she was going even further. “We have some foolish ways,” she said, and watched him.

He hesitated, then said, “Yeah.”

She stopped then. He looked too uncomfortable.

Then they were staring into each other’s eyes.

And then suddenly she couldn’t stop herself and she reached out and caressed his cheek with her fingertips. It was something different from what had been before—gentle intimacy—outside of the rituals. And she was afraid he would reject it, but he looked into her eyes and smiled and she let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

She couldn’t stop. She took his hand in hers and looked at it, so large against hers, the fingers so beautifully rough. And then one by one she kissed his fingers, slow and sweet—the plain silver rings on each finger touching her lips and when she stopped, she had tears in her eyes and she couldn’t meet his gaze. And she had to go away for a while.

Every night, when Trena was soundly asleep she would always take a Purple Lotus pill and wait for it to lull her to sleep.

That night, as many other nights, she lay awake at his side, as the drug slowly overtook her body, listening in the dark to the sound of his breaths. And, as many nights, she thought of the nights she had spent in the village with Jenny. Lying on their backs, they used to look into the dark sky above, watching the twinkling stars and the glowing moon.… They used to hold hands. She could remember Jenny’s thumb running gently over her knuckles. And as the hours passed by, they would talk about everything that was important to them. It had become, over time, a ritual all their own.…

And Jenny was still out there. She missed her so much.

That night, as other nights, the name came in his sleep, whispered from his lips so sweetly: “Laura”—the name that wasn’t hers. Once, before she had known his way, Jasmine had spoken back to him mistakenly and he had answered from within his dream. Now she would play with it, answering back, pretending as he whispered the name, biting her lip as he responded, wondering if she might in this way tell him what she felt. But she never could. And as he whispered that name, she wished with all her heart that he might someday say her name that way.

On the third day of the second week out, she finally found the courage to ask him about her.

They had been talking once again about the things they might do together when they went to Dallas, where he was to have his transplant surgery.

“So tell me about your wife,” she said, trying to sound casual.

There had been a flash in his eyes when she said it. “Well,” he said, smiling softly, “in many ways, she’s a lot like you, but in many others, she is not.” He smiled nervously. What did that smile mean?

“Ah, I see,” she said with an exaggerated nod and put on her doe eyes, covering up the twinge of discomfort she felt inside.

He smiled at that and chuckled, then he was staring at her.

“How did you meet?” she asked.

He paused, thinking: “The marriage between me and Laura was arranged.” Her heart jumped at that. An arranged marriage. Perhaps their marriage was one of obligation only.

“Did you love her?” she asked, trying to be calm, but her breath was quickening.

He hesitated, looking at her. “No. I didn’t love her.” Anxiously, she searched his face. “But I grew to love her with time.” Her heart sank. She nodded. His eyes were welling up. “There are parts of you that remind me of her. Your gentleness, your understanding, your silliness. The way you move sometimes.” His eyes drifted over her and she felt the heat rise within her. “You sound like her—your voice, the way you say words.… Sometimes if I look away and listen to you speak, I can imagine she’s here … for a moment.” Then he was lost in thought. He lowered his head. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay,” she murmured. She stared into his brown eyes, losing herself in the gentleness there.

He smiled slightly and then his eyes became far away. “I can see her in my head now. Taking care of our sons. She’s such a good mother.” Jasmine nodded. “She’s very spunky,” he said and laughed. “She’s a good, strong woman. She’s one of the few people who understands me.” He looked at her. “You’re another.” She smiled shyly. “I really miss her.” He looked sad, his eyes searching desperately in hers for comfort.

And when she saw the sadness, tears came to her eyes and she took his hand and she wished with all her heart that he could be back with his wife at that very moment. How could she not? She loved him.

She timidly leaned forward and kissed him. And as they quietly started to make love, she leaned into his ear and whispered warm, “You may pretend I am her.” And she meant it with everything inside. And he only said back, “No, I want to make love to you.”

They made love then, and it was so different from the times before.

The shedding ritual was growing closer and closer and she was getting afraid, the thoughts of it filling her mind until she could no longer keep it inside.

“Why do you have to shed?” she asked.

They were eating. One wasn’t supposed to speak while eating.

He looked at her, his eyes running over her face. “It is custom,” he said tensely. He had not exploded. That was good.

But now she was going to go too far, but she couldn’t stop herself. “But what reason is there for it?” She looked down, staring into her plate on the short table in front of her.

She could feel his eyes on her, still reading her, but not angry. Thankfully not angry. A chill went up her spine and she felt the dread throughout her body.

“You know what reason, Jasmine. It is payment for the gift of renewed life.” He was speaking in the standard rhetoric and it was making her angry.

She tried to hold it back now, but she couldn’t stop. “Is it necessary? Don’t you think the purification and contemplation is enough?”

He was just looking at her now and she couldn’t speak. Dammit, she wanted to tell him. Tell him how stupid and meaningless it all was. Tell him that they could leave it all behind.…

“Jasmine, it is custom. I have to do it. There would be dishonor if I didn’t. There must be obedience for the Ways to persist.”

It was all just more rhetoric. Her voice took on an angry edge. “Maybe it shouldn’t persist.”

“Jasmine, it is the Way. It doesn’t matter if you think it’s nonsense, or if I—” He shook his head.

Tears rolled down her face. She could see the pain it caused him and she regretted, but she knew that if it weren’t for the Ways, he never would have felt such pain. She would not apologize.

His voice sounded choky, hurt. “It is the Way. Please don’t talk of this anymore. It is the Way.”

And she did not talk of it anymore.

She looked deeply into his eyes as he began the ritual known as “Dust Drifting on the Wind,” his voice a soothing whisper—”I praise you beautiful woman, incarnation of the Goddess, and all your parts.…”

And then his hand upon her head. Then his soft voice whispering, “Mind.” And then what she had ached for—his touch—his hand gliding slow and sure against her skin, caressing her cheek, gliding down against the side of her neck, leaving tingly trails of feeling. His fingertips riding over the ridge of her collar bone, then slowly down on her skin. Down to her pulsing heart—he circled it, rising up on the swell of her breast. She felt the warmth spreading through her body. “Soul,” he whispered. Then he was caressing her, his hand molding to the shape of her breast, circling, then the back of his fingers a whisper against the tender swollen tips of her nipples—”Mother”—then down, slowly down her, over her stomach—down, down—coming to rest gently between her thighs. She took in a deep breath. “Life.” And then his gentle fingertips caressing her, melding there with the wetness from inside of her, sending tingles of pleasure through her body. She shuddered and moaned and lost herself in the sensations, catching her breath. And she wanted it to go on forever, to exist forever in his touch.…

Afterwards, she couldn’t break the hold of his eyes and she saw something in them she had never seen before. It made her smile. “What?”

He tried to speak, but couldn’t—could only sit there adorably.

“Yes?”

Finally, he spoke. “You know something?” he said with a soft voice. And then he couldn’t speak again.

“Yes?” She searched his eyes.

“I really like the way you smile.”

That made her smile. “Oh?” She suddenly felt warm.

“Yeah.” He looked down. “And the way you move.”

“The way I move?”

“The way you walk, like you’re gliding, the way your arms flow through the air … the way you move. It’s like a dance. It’s beautiful.”

She looked down, suddenly overwhelmed with shyness, feeling the warm blush crawling up her cheeks. She had no idea he watched her so. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“And I like the way you are, the way you think and how you look at things … and the way you giggle.…” And as he spoke, she thought she could see it in his eyes again. But then he looked away, nervous. And when he looked back he caressed her cheek and it was gone.

What had she seen?

And the thoughts came more then—making her breath quicken. Perhaps what she had dreamed was true. Perhaps he might love her as well. Perhaps he might take her as his second wife, and return to the village with her. And they would live together and he would be with her always. The thoughts made her mind hum. It filled her with dread not to know.

She was going to tell him she loved him. She had to. The shedding was the next day and she had to. Maybe he wouldn’t do it if he knew what she felt for him, knew how much it would hurt her. But she looked into his eyes and she couldn’t bring the words to her mouth. And she had to look away.

The next day it happened.

Upon waking, he performed the ritual in solitude. She listened from her room, but heard nothing. She sat the next four hours in dread—trembling, knees tucked under her arms, rocking back and forth. She would close her eyes and try to block out the image in her head of the ritual scissors sliding closed, try to block out the words of the ritual repeating in her head, in his voice: Goddess, I give my touch up to you, in exchange for renewed life.…

When he finally appeared, he stepped slowly out of the room. She stared at his hand at his side and saw that it was done.

The first finger shed was the pinky on his left hand. Now there was only a bloody lump. And she knew it would continue for the next four days.…

Fingers that had touched her so gently, caressed her most intimate parts, now being slowly whittled away. Destroyed. She cried quietly for them, feeling as the tears rolled warmly down her cheeks.

He looked back and smiled sadly at her.

And she turned away. She cried until the tears no longer came and she didn’t know how she would be able to handle it, how she could sit by and watch and do nothing. But what could she do? And the thoughts filled her head—desperate thoughts—overwhelming her, until at last, exhausted, she slept.

In her dream, Trena snipped off each finger one by one and she couldn’t stop him. The stumps gushed streams of red. And, crying, she picked up the fingers and tried to press them back on, but they only fell away.…

She tried to accept it. Tried with all her might.

But she couldn’t. That night, when they made love, his touch against her skin was ugly … incomplete. He tried to hide the pain, but she could see it in his face … it was as if she could feel it herself. And all she could think was that it would continue and she didn’t know how she could ever forgive herself for letting him do that to himself.

When they were done, she lay by his side and searched his eyes. He smiled gently back.

“Please Trena, don’t shed anymore,” she pleaded and looked into his eyes.

She could see the pain. “I—I can’t stop, Jasmine.”

He turned away.

They lay in silence then for hours, until finally she heard his breath go into sleep.

She waited.

She didn’t know what she would do if her plan didn’t work. It was a tremendous risk, but she felt it was the only chance she had. And she didn’t know whether he would accept it or whether it would divide them forever, but she knew she couldn’t let the shedding continue.

She turned the lights up slightly—just enough to see what she was doing. He stirred, but did not wake.

She waited.

Finally, the name came, gently from his lips: “Laura.” And as he said it, she could hear the way his voice held the name. “Laura, I’m sorry,” he was whispering and she caressed his cheek, hoping he wouldn’t wake.

She trembled, whispering soft in his ear. “Trena, shhhh, it’s Laura.” His features went slightly taut and she feared he might wake, but he relaxed again and his eyes remained closed.

He murmured, “Laura?” That was the voice—so soft, gentle. She tingled to hear it directed to her—though it was not her name—for the moment she could pretend.

“Yes, dear,” she said and he smiled. She was trembling. She had never spoken to him this way before—had only said such words in her dreams or whispered them when she was alone and now it was real. “Sit up, dear.” She propped him up and pressed the glass to his lips. “Here, drink this.” She tipped the glass and he didn’t challenge. He drank. She felt relief. “Good honey,” she said, and she knew that for a moment, he loved her truly and she was everything to him. She took the glass gently from his lips and set it on the floor, then drew her fingertips slowly against his cheek. He smiled. “You’re beautiful,” she whispered, her voice trembling, not caring about the extra risk, for this was the moment she had dreamed about. And it might be the only moment such as this she would ever have. She kissed his neck, smelling the scent of his skin and he moaned. She drew her hand through his hair and he tilted his head toward it. Then, tingling all over, she bent to touch her lips to his, but just before they would have met, a look of confusion crossed his face.

“Laura?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “It’s me.” But his eyes were opening and he was smiling and she dreaded it and she was about to try to persuade him to go to sleep again, but now his eyes were open and brown, squinting at her in the dim light and he was so cute that despite herself, she had to smile big, adoring.

The tears welled up in her eyes. It was all slipping away. She watched in dread as the awareness slowly began to return to his face. His voice was raspy, just waken. “Jasmine?” And when he said it, he didn’t say it the way he said the other name. “Jasmine? What—” She kissed his shoulder then, trying desperately to hold onto that moment. But it was lost.

A slight look of disgust crossed his face. He could taste the Purple Lotus in the drink now. “What—?” He still didn’t understand.

She caressed his cheek then. “Darling,” she said, and she realized she had never called him that. A puzzled expression crossed his face, as if he was struggling to understand something, trying to break out of sleep. She was losing him.

She had to try to keep him. “Let’s make love, darling.”

His face changed. “You—”

“Let’s make love, honey.” He couldn’t understand. Not now. She kissed him but his lips didn’t respond. “Please honey, let’s make love.” She was starting to cry, the tears flowing warmly down her cheek.

His face turned angry. “You drugged me.…” It was as if he couldn’t believe it, didn’t want it to be true, and he looked into her face and she looked back and she was sure he could see the guilt in her face.

He tried to get up, but she pushed him back to the bed then flung her leg over him and sat with all of her weight on him. The drug was already starting to take effect. She could see the confusion in his face. It would only take a little while longer if she could keep him from purging it. She leaned and caught his wrists, then pressed them to the bed, stretching out to keep him beneath her. He struggled, but he was already weakening. For what seemed the longest time, he shifted and rippled underneath her, but she pressed closer and held him.

Then he suddenly stopped and they both lay still, breathing in heavy gasps.

Then with a sudden surge, he tipped her off of him. He pushed her and clumsily tried to stand, but she kicked the back of his knee and he crashed to the floor.

And then she was on him, wrestling, her chest pressed to his, him trying desperately now to get his finger down his throat, grunting drunkenly, but he was getting weaker quickly and as his body went more and more limp, she held him, held him in her embrace, felt his warmth, felt his breath slow as if they were making love and she knew this might be the last time. And she had to tell him she loved him before he slipped away, because this might be her last chance, but she couldn’t, watching helplessly as he drifted away, and as he struggled just before his eyes closed, he whispered soft: “Jasmine,” and that was the way it should have been, in that voice, soft.

She spent the rest of the week in solitude, as Trena slept. Every few hours she would slip a tiny amount of Purple Lotus into his mouth so that he would not awaken. Every day, she prayed, meditated, and kept rituals and meals. Silly, she knew, but she still did it—for Trena. Every day was so empty without him to talk to. She would often think of him, replaying in her mind conversations they’d had, remembering the way he’d smiled, the way he looked into her eyes, how it had felt when he’d held her.…

She wondered if he dreamed of her.

And she wondered if he could ever forgive her for what she had done. And if they could ever be together. She loved him. And she had to tell him so. If nothing else, she had to tell him.

They might be together.

On the final day, she stopped giving him the Purple Lotus. Later that day, the doors of the building would be unlocked.

She sat by Trena’s side and watched him, watched him breathe, looking childlike, his lips slightly parted, his face relaxed.

She was happy to see him awakening, but also sad—because she knew that once their eyes met, things might never be the same.

After several minutes, his eyelids began to flutter.

She felt her heart quicken in her chest.

And then, after all that time, there were Trena’s eyes—soft and brown again. He looked at her, squinting. A puzzled expression crossed his face. He looked down at himself, then around at the room. Then he suddenly understood, and his face grew sad.

He shakily sat up. “Don’t,” she barely managed to say, her voice catching. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed then stood and she rose to steady him. She put her hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off.

“You shouldn’t stand,” she whimpered.

He looked at her, and for a moment, their eyes locked. “You will not return with me,” he said—his voice was filled with pain.

Desperately, Jasmine began to plead with him, “We could run away together! We can leave this place behind!”

Trena stared intensely into her eyes, then shook his head and said, “You will be banished from the village. We are never to see each other again.”

Jasmine lowered her head, defeated. There would be no way to change Trena’s mind.

He looked down at his hand, then crinkled his fingers, staring at them as if they were something strange to him. The stub of his finger had healed slightly during the time he had been asleep. He brought his hand up and caressed her cheek. As he looked into her eyes, his mouth formed into a sad smile.

She tried to speak, but couldn’t. She had to tell him. She had to. “I—” The words wouldn’t come. She looked desperately into his eyes. “I—”

“I know,” he said.

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers softly, she felt his breath as he drew away. He reached into his pocket and his hand came up holding something. “I was going to give you this,” he said gently. She held out her hand and he dropped it into her palm. It was a small tarnished silver ring. She realized suddenly that it was the ring from his pinky finger. He started to speak—softly, almost a whisper. “You have been my Goddess and you will always be that to me. And I will always remember. You’re a part of me now.” He looked into her eyes. “Goodbye, Jasmine.” For an instant he held her trembling hand, then he pressed it closed around the ring.

And as he drew back the look on his face was sad. And all she was thinking was that it felt wrong—it felt so wrong—it felt unfinished. And it would never be finished. And the emptiness as he drew his hand away was one of the greatest she had ever known—even greater than the emptiness she had known before she had met him.

She had loved twice now.

Chapter 10

Fat Sucker

Fat Sucker is a product the likes of which has never been seen before. It literally attracts and absorbs fat.

Tina’s hands were trembling as she pulled at the taped flaps of the box. Her fingers were pudgy and fleshy. Tina was a pudgy girl. She eased the box into the soft flesh of her belly and started jerking and tugging at the damn thing. It gave suddenly with a low roar, causing her arm to jerk backward. Three foam peanuts scrambled over the edge of the box and drifted into the plush carpet below.

She took a deep breath. What she had been anxiously awaiting for the past three days lay nestled within all those white foam peanuts, nestled in there all cozy just waiting to solve her problem. She probed her fingers in deeply. Jeremy. The grin stretched at the skin of her face as her fingers found the smooth surface of the bottle. Soon, Jeremy, she thought, and then, triumphantly, she reclaimed the bottle from its foam peanut bonds.

She unscrewed the cap, then poked the silver safety seal with her knuckle and started picking impatiently at the cotton.

She poured a few of the pills into her hand and stared at them. Each pill was half gray and half yellow and very large. She read the label on the bottle: One hundred percent safe and natural. Never ever take more than one capsule in any 6-hour period.

Now this kind of confused Tina, but she figured that the warning must be required by the FDA or something—even though it wasn’t necessary—kind of like the warning not to take more than ten aspirins every 24-hours. Classic overprecaution on the FDA’s part.

She picked up a pill and smiled. Jeremy. He’d been her number one crush since the fifth grade. She’d even begun taking breast-enlarging pills when she was 12 just to try to get his attention. But she’d never told him how she felt. Whenever he was near, she silently yearned to feel the firmness and warmth of his body pressed to hers. She wanted to hold him and hold him and never let go. But it was something she couldn’t do.

But in a few weeks, things would be different, she just knew it. She sensed that he already kind of liked her for her personality and large breasts. All she needed to do now was get rid of the pudginess and she was sure he would fall for her. Maybe she would even become as skinny as Tyria the supermodel! Tyria was so beautiful. For you, Jeremy, she thought—then she slipped the gargantuan pill into her mouth. As she did, the words from the infomercial came back to her: It’s like a fat magnet. She smiled big and swallowed. The pill scraped against the inside of her throat.

She grimaced.

Then she smiled again.

She recalled what the infomercial had said—it was supposed to absorb the fat you ate so it would pass through your system undigested and you would lose weight. All the scientific stuff kind of confused her, but she figured it meant that, through some kind of scientific process, anything she put in her stomach would vanish—so it would basically be like eating air.

Now she would be able to eat all the meat sticks she wanted.

As a matter of fact she would do that right now.

She weighed herself, then brought out a new tube of meat sticks and a three-liter bottle of root beer. Thankfully, everybody was out, so she didn’t have to share with anybody or put up with Mom’s nagging. She was kind of bored so she popped a Purple Lotus pill. And she figured that since she was taking so many pills, she might as well take some more, and swallowed one of her BoobToob Thunder brand breast enlargement pills. Then she sat down to watch Diff’rent Strokes, ate fourteen of the meat sticks (leaving one in the tube), then weighed herself again. She had gained three pounds. How distressing. Obviously, one Fat Sucker pill wasn’t enough. She took another one and waited five minutes. Still no change. She pouted.

She forced another one down, and then another.

She waited.…

There was a gurgling in her stomach, and then a slight pain.…

more pain.…

.…

Oh God, no! Kill me now!! I WANT TO DIE!!!! The pain was like the worst pain she had ever felt, times two. She trembled, then she trembled more violently. Then she fell over into a floppy thud. Then she rolled up into a pudgy ball.

And then suddenly it wasn’t as bad.

She got up from the floor.

Tina felt strange. She went to look in the mirror. Her jiggly cheeks looked noticeably less jiggly, which was nice, but she felt like she was dying. She weighed herself again. She had lost four pounds in ten minutes. And plus, curiously, her tummy felt empty. She pressed her hand to her tummy. Yep, empty tummy. Where had the meat sticks gone?

Maybe it would stop. Maybe she would reach a gorgeously slim weight and it would stop and then Jeremy would fall so hard for her he would embarrass himself. She smiled.

But then again, maybe it would keep going and going and she would get skinnier and skinnier … until she died. She frowned. Maybe she shouldn’t have taken that Purple Lotus. She could feel it starting to kick in. Everybody always warned her about mixing pills.

She hoped she wasn’t going to die, but if she was, she had to tell Jeremy how she felt about him. She knew where he was. He worked in the Burger Despot restaurant after school.

He was there now.

She took the keys to Mom’s car even though she was still too young to have a license. During the whole drive, she was a nervous wreck. She thought she could actually feel herself getting thinner.

She’d been hoping it was her imagination, but when she finally got there and stepped out of the car, she had to cinch her belt up three notches to keep her pants from falling down.

She rushed to the doors. “Jeremy?… Jeremy?…” She was shouting it as she entered the restaurant, and shouting it as she went through the employees’ door. “Jeremy?…” As she entered the kitchen, the familiar heat of the grill washed over her, and the smell of sizzling beef filled her nose.

“Tina?” he called back. He was standing on the far side of the kitchen, by the freezers, feeding buns and frozen hamburger patties into the conveyor-belt grill.

Tina stood captivated, taking him in with her eyes. He was so cute in his maroon polyester shirt and blue cotton pants and his cap that said “Burger Despot” on the front.

“Tina? Tina, you look so skinny.”

Tina shrugged out of her daze and numbly turned to look at her reflection in the manager’s window. She looked beyond skinny—she looked anorexic—actually, she looked like an anorexic with huge breast implants, because her boobs were still the same size.

She turned back to him. The buds of tears formed in her eyes as she gazed upon his loveliness.

Then she felt something cool plop against her arm. She glanced down. It was a glob of mayonnaise. It must have gotten from the preparation counter to her arm somehow—she didn’t know how. But as she looked at it, it suddenly disappeared, as if it had evaporated. She shook her head, then glanced back at Jeremy.

She stepped toward him. He set down the hamburger bun he’d been holding and watched her.

She stopped. Her eyes traced over his beautiful blue eyes, his cute little nose, his delicate lips. Then she winced in sudden pain as a drop of something hot spattered into her left cheek. Then she winced again—this time something had spattered into the left side of her neck. But when she went to wipe the drops away, she only contacted bare skin. She turned her head and watched, astounded, as a glob of grease flung itself off one of the burgers on the end of the grill, sailed through the air, and crashed into her nose.

She realized now what was happening.

She turned back and looked sadly into Jeremy’s eyes, as burgers spat globs of hot grease into her neck and the side of her face. She didn’t even wince anymore. His baby blues looked shimmery through her tears.

She had to tell him. She might never have another chance.

“Jeremy, I love you,” she said. Her voice was full of longing and despair.

He took two small steps toward her. Now he stood so close she could almost feel him.

She wanted to be closer.

She looked up at him and his lips were trembling. He looked into her eyes. “And I love you,” he said.

Tina wasn’t expecting that. “But I thought—”

He touched his finger to her lips. “Shhh my love. I’ve fallen in love with you already for who you are … your weight doesn’t matter to me.”

She could see in his eyes that it was so.

He glanced down shyly, then leaned forward and pressed his lips softly to hers, timidly withdrew, bit his lip. And her head was swimming—her body was tingling. And now they were embracing, holding each other, sharing the warmth between their bodies. And the room around them felt like it was spinning.

Together, they drew their heads back.

Their eyes met then, reaching into each other, touching deep down inside … and a profound shudder went through Tina’s body.

She smiled at him and watched as the corners of his mouth turned up slightly, shyly.

Then she watched his mouth stretch into a grimace.

And then his eyes looking back into hers opened wide with terror—Jeremy started … melting. His arms wrapped so tightly around her were becoming a part of her, her ample breasts pressed so closely against him were pulling him, the closeness between them growing closer and closer, the flesh of their bodies merging.…

And with a clap of thunder, Jeremy became absorbed by her boobs.

Chapter 11

The Eyes of the Adoring

They told her how, upon St. Agnes’ Eve,

Young virgins might have visions of delight,

And soft adorings from their loves receive

Upon the honey’d middle of the night,

—John Keats, “The Eve of St. Agnes”

January 21, St. Agnes’ Eve, the middle of the night.

Mary lay nervously in her bed, arms held straight at her side. She was trying to keep her eyes closed, but they kept popping open.

Daddy had told her about St. Agnes’ Eve, which she’d read about with wide-eyed wonder, and now she lay awaiting her phantom lover to visit her.

It was so quiet.

She could hear herself breathing.

According to what she’d read, on St. Agnes’ Day, which was an old, mostly-forgotten Catholic holiday, young girls would be visited in the night by the spirit of a “phantom lover”—that is, if they followed the ritual and were still a virgin—she was still a virgin at 14, and she was determined not to give up her virginity until marriage.

She waited.

Before she could think to check the time on the clock again, she felt someone kiss her softly on her lips. Her eyes popped open. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dark, but then she could see … there, hovering in the dark, were two gorgeous, shining green eyes blinking back at her. They were eyes without a face.

She could feel the gaze of those beautiful eyes roving over the delicate features of her face and could see her face reflected back to her in the moist reflection of the eyes, like a mirror—the violet of her hair and eyes mixed in with the green of the irises.

And whispering into her ear was the gentle voice of a boy, whispering, “My little angel.…”

Lying next to her, her teddy bear, Mister Cuddles, opened his mouth wide—this seemed perfectly normal to Mary because she figured that she must be inside a dream.

It was hard to describe the flood of emotions rushing to her head. It was like the seduction of a dream, like ribbons intertwining and gentle warmth licking the ridges of her ribs.It felt like marshmallow twigs tapping up and down her body and her disembodied soul dancing with the ponytail spirits of miniponies. Again, it didn’t have to make sense, because she was inside of a dream.

She felt warm tears rolling from her eyes, because the feelings were so beautiful.

“Oh my dear, sweet girl,” he sighed warmly upon her cheek. Then his tongue was softly licking at her tears.

And he was breathing these words into her ear: “Oh my darling, I am brought back to life on your love—so long as you love me, my heart shall beat with yours.”

She succumbed to the allure of his sadness.

Then the boy, or spirit, or whatever it was, engulfed her.

As the pleasure crawled through her body, she arched her back and moaned.

She turned her head and sighed into her pillow, sleeping peacefully into the morning.

The next morning, as Mary woke up, she immediately looked around her room, but it was the same as the night before. However, she felt an odd feeling of destiny—it was like it was crackling in the air around her.

With trepidation that went so strongly through her body that she actually trembled, she picked out her outfit.

She slipped the hot pink poncho over her head, sat on the edge of her bed and slid the black and white striped thigh-high socks on her legs. Then she donned a black miniskirt. She teased her silky violet hair into an awkward bundle at the top of her head, letting the loose ends trail about her neck. She left two even pieces at the front which fell down to her shoulders. With the final addition of a pink bow to match her poncho, her hair was complete.

It was definitely a fashion risk, and she didn’t know if she was popular enough to pull it off without being ridiculed at school. But she walked out the door with a look of determination.

The day wasn’t getting off to a good start, though, because she spent so long primping and dressing that she missed the bus.

But after getting dressed up, there was no way in hell she was going to skip school on this day! Unfortunately, though, Daddy had already gone to work, and her brother had already gone to school. She would have to walk—it would take a while and she’d be late, but it was what she was going to do.

So, with a look of utter determination on her face, she strode forward forcefully, toward school.

But the day was about to get worse before it even began, because it began to rain, and she hadn’t brought an umbrella, so she had to walk about five minutes in the rain before she finally made it into the school.

When she made it inside the school, she was dripping wet. Her meticulously coiffed hair was stringy and plastered to her forehead, her oh-so-cute outfit was soaked and clinging to her. She was utterly distraught. She poked her head timidly into the entrance on the far east hall and looked around—she would have to do some damage control on her appearance in the ladies’ room—the hall was empty, much to her relief.

Quickly she flitted down the hallway, headed for the bathroom—she was so worried about being seen that she wasn’t even looking where she was going, and as she rounded the corner, she almost ran right into someone! She had to stop suddenly, and she almost slipped and lost her balance in her wet, squeaky shoes.

With the rising flush of embarrassment coloring her cheeks, she looked up timidly at the person she had almost plowed into. It was a boy, with the most beautiful sparkling, green eyes and he was so cute that she almost gasped out loud, then she bit her lip shyly. She set her eyes meekly on the ground. “Oh, god,” she stammered. “I’m so sorry, don’t look at me, I’m a mess, I’m sorry.”

She peered up at him, afraid and ashamed to look at him directly, as her embarrassment grew stronger with each moment.

The boy looked at her drenched body, stringy hair, her soaked, meticulously-picked outfit. And he quirkily smiled and she saw the metallic silver which revealed that he wore braces too. Then the boy said, “Do you know why it rained today?”

“No, why?”

“Because the sky cried when it saw how beautiful you were.”

She tilted her head dreamily at this strange boy who spoke such beautiful, grown-up words—she thought she recognized his voice—it sounded a lot like the voice in her dream last night. Had it been a psychic prediction? An astral projection? She lifted her head and now she was staring into his luscious green eyes, losing herself in them.

She felt like she was in a dream.

Suddenly, she remembered to speak, and said, “Awww, that’s sweet, but hey, you know what? I don’t think we’ve ever met before.”

“My name is Corey, nice to meet you.”

“I’m Mary, nice to meet you. Are you new in school?”

“Well, sort of. I used to go here before. Now I’m back.”

“How long have you been here? What teachers do you have? I don’t remember ever seeing you before.”

Corey smirked. “Well, they’ve been keeping me locked in the basement.”

Mary laughed and rolled her eyes. She was about to say something else, but Corey seemed to be scrutinizing her. “What?” she asked.

“You remind me a lot of someone … are you … your mother isn’t Emily DeWalt is she?”

Mary was taken aback. “Yeah … she is. At least, that’s her maiden name.” And her post-divorce name, she wanted to add. She wanted to ask him how he knew. Had he been talking about her to other people?

But just then, she was distracted by a drop of rain rolling from her forehead, over the bridge of her nose, and down her cheek. She was alarmed at this development and wiped the raindrop away, wishing futilely that he wouldn’t see, but of course, he could see everything.

Corey politely ignored it, and continued speaking: “Yeah, I used to know her. You look just like her, except she had brown hair.”

“Oh yeah? You want me to ask her if she remembers you? What’s your last name?”

“Miltenburg,” he replied, then he suddenly seemed flustered. “Ummm.…” He looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’m waiting for someone who’s about to get out of class, but it’s been nice meeting you.”

“Oh!” Mary exclaimed, and then she pouted a little—she wanted to talk with him just a little bit longer. “It’s been nice meeting you.…” then she took a chance, and said, “Hey what lunch period do you have? Maybe we could sit together.…”

Corey seemed a little bit thrown by the question and seemed to be thinking of how to respond. Instead, he looked at his watch again, and said, “Errr, I’m sorry, but I really have to be going. I’ll see you around.”

And with that, he went back around the corner.

And then the bell rang, leaving Mary to be swamped by hordes of kids while she was still dripping wet.

Each night that week, she would have the same dream.

She looks down to where her feet will travel. Her feet are in stiletto heels.

In front of her is a fashion runway.

And she is overcome with a feeling of dread as she realizes that she is naked.

Her heart starts twitching, racing—there must be time enough to change, to at least throw on some sort of clothing or even use tape! But the voice over the intercom calls out now, like the very voice of god, sounding almost bored. “And now,” it says, “ladies and gentlemen, the girl who brought poetry into the world, the violet-haired, lily-skinned goddess, Mary. And now, here she is, as useless as a star in the sky, but shining on forever, our most beautiful jewel, our sparkling amethyst, our very own virgin Mary!”

And now they were all expecting her—she couldn’t turn back now—best to put one foot in front of the other, try not to stumble—remember your balance, girl.

They’re all going to be looking at me, all eyes on me—her breaths becoming even quicker, each breath shallower, until now she is panting like she’s in sexual excitement.

And she feels like such a whore, a whore that exists just to be gazed at, Their eyes roving over her body as if it were a runway. She almost feels like she should be stripping, showing off her newly-grown breasts.

As useless as a star. Is that even of any use?

But it’s what she wants—to be noticed, to be adored.

All eyes on me, bitches—she chuckles to herself.

And she does her best model stroll, head held high—if she had a cock it would be proudly standing tall, straight up, and throbbing.

The sudden light of the runway, bomb blasts of camera lights, she strolls on that stage, her butt held high in the heels, perfectly balanced, naked in front of everyone—she can imagine all their eyes upon her nubile body, lusting for her, all just for her, maybe getting hard or wet … she can imagine.…

—she stumbles a little, her ankle bending in a way it isn’t supposed to, tottering.…

Something is wrong.

And now the fear overtakes her, and she’s stopping … in her ears it’s eerily quiet as if all the sound has been cut off … and slowly, with the feeling of dread creeping over her, she looks at the crowd.…

and now she tries to swallow her dread as she realizes the ugly truth—they aren’t looking at me at all—their eyes are not on me at all!

She notes the smitten expressions on their faces, follows the direction of the lines of their sight—

they’re all looking at someone else on the stage, in front of Mary!

Involuntarily, Mary herself is becoming smitten, falling in love with the angelic specimen of woman in front of her, adorned in a shimmering, blue, backless evening gown—

she can only see the model’s back, but on that swaying back, all the vertebras are perfectly outlined under her skin, like a delicate path of pebbles to the holy land of her ass. And the model doesn’t so much move as glide, the whole of her body like a glimmering blur of a path—and for a moment Mary has a single, impossible thought and hope: that perhaps The Model is like some mythical creature who is beautiful in back, but, because she had besmirched a god, has been cursed with a hideous front—Mary imagines a face of a serpent, two breasts like shriveled, deflated footballs—perhaps like the gorgon, she holds people in the spell of her hideous gaze, turning them to horrified statues of stone.

And now she—no, it—is turning around and it’s worse than any monster that Mary could have ever imagined, because the model isn’t ugly at all—her face is gorgeous with her lips slightly-parted, her cheekbones high and her bedroom eyes narrowed like razors of lust.

And as the model turns, the slippery silk top of the dress slides off and now her tits are gliding across Mary’s vision.

She is beautiful, radiant, her body constructed perfectly: her glorious back romances her sweet tits and they dance with the swaying of her hips—like a ballet of female flesh. And her skin is so magnificent, flawless—with blue pulsing veins beneath the peaches n’ cream and bits of pink—she is like a pirouetting mannequin, dainty limbs and flesh swaying on the sinuous serpent of her spine.

Anger surges through Mary. She wants to pounce on her and tear the flesh from that perfect face.

And now, her glittering eyes come into view—two unholy shining emeralds, glowing with an inner, demonic energy.

Eyes full of lies.

And now Mary recognizes that perfect face, those perfect features—the pouting face of a sculptured goddess, as perfect as if it had been chiseled by the very hand of god.

It’s Tyria, the supermodel.

And Mary thinks to herself, Oh my god, how can I compete with that?

How can I compare these breasts, newly-growing to those two luscious apples of hers, jiggling upon a perfectly-defined ribcage like a greyhound dog?

And all the people in the crowd stand eating Tyria up with their eyes as if she were some sort of delectable feast comprised of the ambrosia and nectar of the gods.

And their eyes desert Mary, leaving her abandoned and empty. Mary’s stance falters, her shoulders drop. Now she is nothing. She is invisible.

And Tyria is like a venomous flower with cold, half-lowered eyelids that thrive on the blood of her admirers. In one movement, all her worshippers—her cult of viewers—draw out glinting knives, and they hold out trembling forearms, with their wrists held upward to the heavens and stab their pulsing blue veins—the gaping red yawns out like geysers from each wrist—they all aim their gushing red life-liquid upwards, up, gushing up, upon the runway. And Tyria stands being drenched, covered in it, soaking it up, letting it run all over her, transforming brown hair to red, pale skin to dripping liquid—she is holding her arms outward, grinning.

And Mary stands watching, ignored, with her heart thumping harshly in her neck—she is abandoned, watching enraged, watching someone else drinking in the blood of adoration.

But now she senses something upon her cheek. Someone is looking at her—but who could it be?

She turns her head slowly, timidly to her right, peering over her round shoulder.

And she meets his eyes.

His eyes, gazing at her, adoring her, narrowed, and it is almost as if he were penetrating her skin, looking inside, caressing her soul with those green eyes, eyelashes fluttering every now and again in his adoration.

She realizes now that his eyes are not like other peoples’ eyes—the eyes of people, who, when you look inside, there is nothing there. Oh, there is something there, all right, and it is more than just something … it’s her. She is in his eyes.

And he smiles, over his steepled hands, and he has braces too, and they shine like a beacon atop the steeple.

And she smiles back—the shining beacon of light from each of their smiles intertwining in the air and dancing against each other.

And the dream is done—she awakes with a start, her eyes open wide.

“Hey Mary, what’s a complex leaf, do you know? We have that stupid leaf presentation coming up and I don’t know about all those stupid leaves.”

“They should leaf you alone,” Mary replied.

Tina giggled, then said, “I can’t be-leaf they want me to do this!” Her high-pitched, squeaky laugh was a little disturbing.

Then Mary seemed to be distracted by something else and lost her place in the conversation. What she was seeing was that there, at an empty table, sitting alone, was THE BOY. Mary’s eyes went wide with wonder.

Tina quirked her brow, and said, “Oohh. It’s like a garden of violets!” referring to Mary’s eyes. Tina said it at least twice a week.

Mary started talking out of the side of her mouth, so that her lips wouldn’t move. It really looked kind of funny. “Shhhh, Tina, don’t look. That boy is there.…”

Tina moved her lips all swirly, keeping her head still, so no one behind her would be able to see anything. “I’m gonna.…” she said, smirking.

Mary, still trying hard not to move her mouth, screamed, as best she could, “No! Swear to god, Tina, if you do, I’ll twist your tits off.”

Tina arched her brow as if amused. “But I hafta.…”

Mary, still talking out the side of her mouth, replied, “You turn and I’ll pepper your fries.…”

Tina pretended to think this over—she was having fun tormenting Mary—”Pepper in my fries would suck, but it just might be worth it.” She waited for Mary to respond.

But Mary was sitting silently mesmerized, staring right over Tina’s shoulder—The Boy had turned his eyes her way … it was like a warm ocean washing over her.

And without thinking, Mary’s jaw dropped, and it was as if she was surrounded by a planet-wide sea of warm gel, flowing and tickling its way into her open mouth, down her trachea, into her guts, stabilizing, until the pressure was equalized, her ears popping, she was trembling now, she was almost falling over, she was swaying, and still she held his eyes, she felt like she would die if she stopped. Those eyes, so beautiful. Never had she seen anything so beautiful.

and they.…

they.…

adored her.…

She was scared even to blink, to lose even a single moment of contact.

And then suddenly, it was as if she could see out through his eyes, could see herself as he saw her, could even feel his adoration as he gazed at her,

her pouty lips, her big, wide, violet eyes with the fluttering lashes, the way she sat, ever-so-slightly hunched at the lunch table.

The way he looked at her wrapped itself around her heart, and hugged it, in the kind of hug that’s so tight, it suffocates you.

And, impossibly, she could see his face and see out through his eyes at the same time now, and his eyes adored her.

And as she gazed longingly at the boy’s eyes, losing herself in them, she suddenly felt a whap to the back of her head that made her head jerk forward while some kid yelled, “Barney-head!” then a bunch of kids started giggling behind her.

She turned around, scowling.

Jared Cuneo, the jerky football quarterback, was sitting in the seat behind her. He hadn’t been sitting there when she had sat down—he must have moved there just to mess with her. His back was turned to her, but without looking at her, he said, “What are you looking at, brace-face?”

She scowled some more. “You better cut it out, Jared.”

“What did you say, to me, tiny-tits? You want some sausage with your fried eggs?” Now he was turning around.

And now she found she was looking into another pair of eyes, a pair of eyes she despised.

She said, “Why don’t you stop being so immature?”

“Why don’t you grow some tits?” he replied, and all of the guys at his table laughed.

But then Jared’s gaze shifted from Mary, as he looked past her, to where The Boy was sitting, and suddenly a look of terror crossed Jared’s face.

Then, strangely, Jared’s eyes turned watery and he suddenly stopped talking and turned right back around again.

Everyone at Jared’s table noticed and his buddies seemed concerned at their idol’s display of emotion.

One of the guys started laughing and asked, “What’s wrong, Jared?”

And Jared muttered, “Pepper, too much pepper,” then he added with a menacing voice, “Shut up or I’ll broom you again.”

Mary turned back around, searching for Corey, but he was gone.

It was the day of the big pep rally.

Mary was a cheerleader, and she had looked forward to performing for weeks. She liked the feeling of all the peoples’ eyes on her as she performed—it made her feel alive, like she actually mattered. And she loved to imagine that, as she danced, she was provoking uncontrollable reactions in people, causing all the guys to lust for her, and all the girls to envy her.

Now she was shouting one of the cheers as she danced with the other girls: “Peaches, peaches n’ cream! What’s the matter with the other team.…”

The bleachers in the school gymnasium were filled with all the students in the entire school. The bombastic beat of the drums and the invigorating music of the band coursed through everyone’s body.

She twirled divinely. Her pom poms flounced magnificently. She was at one with her pom poms.

Then suddenly, she felt a strange sensation that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up—a sensation of being watched. She searched the rows of bleachers as her head moved through the movements of her routine.

Then she saw The Boy, sitting by himself in one of the aisles of the bleachers … he was staring intensely, watching her every movement.

She was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. Her legs faltered and she stumbled a little, then suddenly she didn’t care about anything else. She stopped and let her pom poms fall, and stood still when she was supposed to be dancing, intent only on meeting this boy’s eyes.

And though he was far away, it felt like he was next to her, whispering at her ear, tickling her with his breath.

she could feel his warmth.

the gentle wisp of his hair,

softly licking at her cheek,

touching the throbbing, warm blood pulsing through the veins of her neck.

He could just bite me, she thought to herself. If only he would just come up and bite me.

She licked the edge of her mouth, rolled her tongue over the top of her lips. Reflexively, she felt her head leaning back.

She inhaled deeply, then sighed.

And those eyes, piercing into her, easily traversing the canyons that exist between souls.

It felt like a caged lion unleashed, pouncing on her, ravaging her.

She was breathing quickly now, only partially aware of, and unable to control the actions of her body. Her legs and stance swaying, hand pressed lightly to her chest to soothe herself.

She looked into his eyes and she could see the gentle sadness there. She could tell that he ached for her.

He had eyes that adored her and she had yearned for those kind of eyes all her life.

She sensed that she had ached for him all her life, but had never known what the feeling was—a certain emptiness that was unidentified until that special someone was found who could slip inside.

Paradise existed—she knew that now, and she had found it—in his eyes.

She immediately put on her pout, felt the shudder go through her body.

And rosy red flashed through her face, cheeks, and chest, much to her liberating embarrassment. Her eyelashes fluttered furiously and she fell to the court like a dying butterfly, flapping her arms like delicate wings.

And then she began to moan and then she began rolling around on the floor. Everybody’s eyes were on her—a great silence came over the whole auditorium. There was only the sound of her moaning, but she was not moaning in pain as everyone thought, but from the thigh-quivering pleasure going through her body and between her legs.…

When the cheerleading coach came up to her and Mary came around, she grinned and looked into the bleachers again, but Corey was gone.

The next day, she was sitting in the hallway, re-reading a copy of The Nubile Verses, her favorite book. She had told the nurse she’d fainted because she was nervous and they’d given her hall duty for first half of the day—they said she needed some rest. She had happily taken the hall assignment, hoping that she might see Corey in the halls sometime during the day.

Around one o’clock she looked up from the book and saw that Corey was standing directly in front of her chair! She jumped a little. She hadn’t even seen him walk up!

“Oh! Corey!” she exclaimed.

He grinned with that quirky, lopsided grin of his. “Mary, hi,” he said.

She didn’t even think to reply back. She was entranced by his eyes, staring into them.

She could see his pupils dilate as he gazed back at her, the crinkling of his eyes. Then he said, gently, “Oh, how I love your eyes. They remind me so much of a line of poetry I once read … ‘like two dark violets bathed in quivering dew.’“

Mary giggled and grinned at him. “That’s so sweet. What’s the rest of the poem?”

“Well, the rest of the poem is a little old and hard to understand.…”

“Go ahead,” she replied.

He thought for a moment, then recited with an almost musical quality to his voice: “Her mouth seemed formed for sighs and sportive guile,” and as he spoke, tremblingly, he lifted his hand, as if he were aching to touch her lips, “and youthful kisses, and there played a smile about her lips.…” He looked at her mouth and she grinned and laughed a little at this … “like an inconstant moth around a flower, now settling, and now flown with every passing breath, as though t’were loth to stay and make the resting-place its own.”—she pouted at him while gazing intensely into his eyes and leaned forward, begging with her quivering lips for him to touch them. Corey gazed longingly at her, but then a look of sadness came across his face and he lowered his arm.

Then he seemed to want to say something but seemed to have trouble speaking. “I—I—have to go. I have to speak to someone. It’s been nice knowing you.…”

Mary felt a lump in her throat. Nice knowing her? She had to say something, maybe get his phone number or email addy.

But Corey was already walking quickly away. “Goodbye Mary,” and his voice sounded so sad. And then he was gone.

She stood there silently for a few moments, trying to memorize every feature of his face, everything he had said, and the way he had said it.

Then all of the sudden, her contemplative moment was interrupted by someone racing through the hall. It was Jared, walking quickly with his head down, looking very upset.

Then Jared noticed Mary standing there. He looked up and Mary could see that he was on the verge of crying.

He looked at her, then said, “I’m sorry, okay? I can’t take it back! I’m sorry about what my father did, and I’m sorry about what I’ve done. I’ll leave you alone, okay? But I don’t know how I can take the other stuff back. I don’t know what I can do! I don’t know how to fix it.”

Then he walked away with his head bowed, leaving Mary blinking in her confusion.

Later that day, Mary was opening her locker. She looked down and there was a note on the bottom. With trembling hands, she lifted the piece of paper, she opened it, and this is what it said:

for my beautiful violet-haired angel~~

I’m sorry I couldn’t look at the stars with you, but

what use are the stars that hang in the sky,

when all the world is what I see in your eyes?

—your Corey

Mary was absolutely in love with Corey.

The annual Secret-Crush 80’s Retro Dance at the junior high was coming up and she wanted to invite Corey, the mysterious Corey. She wanted to finally get together with him and show him off to make all the other girls jealous.

She had been asking everybody about him, but for some reason, no one she knew seemed to know who he was. She had the sneaking suspicion that they were just messing with her. They were jealous, she decided. Well, they couldn’t stand in the way of her meeting him forever.

She didn’t have to know what classes he took or what lunch he had or anything like that, because in the annual Secret-Crush Dance at the school, the students invited people to the dance by writing their names on a slip of paper and letting the school staff give it to them, then they would bring back either an acceptance or rejection. It was supposed to alleviate any of the anxiety of asking the person out, as well as lessen the sting of rejection. And for Mary, it was very convenient, for the one thing she knew was Corey’s name.

She quickly filled out the invitation form, quickly enough so that she wouldn’t chicken out:

I, Mary Keniston am inviting Corey Miltenburg to attend the 80’s Retro Dance with me.

But during science class, the teacher whispered that Mary should go to the office concerning her invitation.

When she got to the office, she was directed to the secretary who was in charge of the invitations.

“Are you sure you got the name right?” the secretary asked. “Our records show that no Corey Miltenburg is enrolled in our school.” Mary’s heart began to race. What the hell? Had he just been hanging out in the hallway, at pep rallies, at the cafeteria?

For another five minutes, they tried to find a match in the list of students, but there wasn’t even anyone close. And Mary began to look so terribly sad and traumatized, her lower lip was trembling with her sadness. Finally, the secretary suggested that she speak with the principal and paged Mary into his office.

“How may I help you?” the principal asked as Mary entered the office.

Mary relayed her dilemma.

Then the principal asked what the boy’s name was. And softly, with a whispery voice, she said his name like she was caressing it: “Corey Miltenburg.”

The principal suddenly grew pale and a rigid expression came across his face. “What did you say his name was?”

She said the boy’s name again, timidly this time.

Now the principal looked angry and glared at her. “Do you think that’s funny?” he demanded.

Mary was taken aback. “No, I—” She looked at him curiously and her expression was one of complete wonder and surprise and innocence.

He seemed to be reading her eyes, searching for any deception or mockery. Then he sighed, and said, “I knew this day would come.”

Mary looked at him with a puzzled expression.

“Hold on,” said the principal. “I’m going to have to start early this afternoon.” He opened one of the drawers of his desk, then reached in and brought out a bottle of whiskey, and set it on the table along with a glass. He poured some whiskey into the glass then took a couple of gulps.

He looked at Mary solemnly. “Mary,” he said, “Corey Miltenburg died over twenty years ago.”

Mary’s eyes twitched as she struggled to understand. “What?”

“You said you saw him?”

“Yes.”

“In the school, but nowhere else?”

“Nowhere else.”

“Did you ever touch him? I mean, ever feel if he was … solid?”

Mary felt a flush rising to her cheek. “No!”

Now he was speaking without thinking, in the way of drunk people. “I believe the boy you met was a ghost, and only certain people can see him, like you, and me.” He took another long drink from the glass.

Mary watched him, waiting. She could tell that the principal really wanted—needed—to explain.

The principal began explaining in a slurred voice, “I knew Corey Miltenburg when he was a boy—when we were both boys and we went to this school together. He … defended me.” The principal’s eyes had grown watery.

“What do you mean?” Mary asked. She stood up and pulled her chair up to the principal’s side, then placed her hand comfortingly on his shoulder.

He continued: “I had joined the football team. I always wanted to be a football star. Corey didn’t want me to do it. He was an art kid—a poet, a painter. We were really close friends and he always stood by me, even though he didn’t want me to join the team. He told me not to join.” A shudder went through the man’s body, this large, overweight man.

Mary tried her best to speak in a soothing voice. “What happened when you joined the team, George?”

“There was a ritual for all the new kids on the team—an initiation. They invited us all to a party. They—” He shuddered again.

“Go on,” Mary said.

“All the older kids gathered around us. They—they—grabbed us, held us down, they stripped our clothes off, they poured things on us, anything they could find … beer, bleach … they urinated on us … then … they … took broomsticks.…” He seemed to have trouble going on.

“Yes?”

“This one boy … he put the broomstick … inside of me.”

Mary’s eyes widened in terror. And now she comforted and held him, saying, “There there, principal. There … there,” while he sobbed, big shuddering bellows of sorrow and the tears streamed down his cheeks.

He continued: “I was too ashamed and scared to say anything. But Corey stood up for me. He confronted the boys—he was even trying to bring in the cops. But people didn’t want to listen. It was a tradition, you see. All kids on the football team get ‘broomed.’ Corey made enemies with the whole football team, especially the quarterback. The quarterback was the one who had … violated me. But Corey wouldn’t back down.” He sighed with resignation. “He got into a couple of fights, got beaten up pretty bad, but I dunno, he had these idealistic notions of standing for what’s right. He kept coming to school. I begged him to forget about it, but he said he had to get revenge—he had to set things right. Then one day.…”

“Yes?”

“He disappeared. He left school at the end of the day and no one ever saw him again. I believe that he was murdered and I always suspected it was Jared behind it.”

Mary shouted out in surprise, “Jared? Jared Cuneo?”

“Yes,” the principal replied. “Not the Jared Cuneo you know, though. I’m talking about his father, Jared Cuneo, senior.”

The principal continued: “Nothing ever happened. They never even found Corey’s body. People say he must have ran away or something, but I believe he was murdered, because he never said a word to me about leaving town, and I was his best friend.”

Mary thought about all of this. It seemed overwhelming, almost unbelievable.

The principal continued: “Then the other day at the pep rally.…” Mary’s eyes widened. The principal shook his head. “I thought I was seeing things, but Mary.…” He looked at her questioningly and she understood immediately.

Mary replied: “Yes, I saw him, in the bleachers.”

The news seemed to hit the principal like a blow. “Oh my god—so I wasn’t imagining! I saw him too—he looked just like he did the last day I saw him in school—he was wearing the same clothes. And I could tell he was watching you. I can understand why.…”

“Why?”

“He and your mother used to date. You look just like she did at your age, except for the hair color.”

Mary gasped.

The principal continued, “Yes, no one else seems to be able to see him. It must be his ghost.”

Mary thought for a moment, then said, “I don’t understand. If he’s a ghost, why does he only show up at the school … unless his body is somewhere in the school!”

The principal said, “That must be it, but in all the time I’ve been a principal at this school, I haven’t seen him. But he talked to me, one time, a few days ago.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he had to set things right before he could rest in peace. But he wouldn’t tell me how. And he said that he had found love again, that love had brought him back for a while … but then he said … all love ends. Then he left.”

Mary struggled to understand.

Mary’s eyes went wide. “Jared!” she exclaimed.

The principal looked at her confusedly and drunkenly.

Mary explained: “Jared grabbed me in the hall a couple days ago. He said that he couldn’t take it back … you said his father was the quarterback who violated you … do you think he carries on the initiation tradition?”

Now the principal understood. “Oh, god! I can’t let Corey do anything to that boy! It’s not the right way to do things!”

They both called into the room, looking around in the empty air. “Corey? Corey, talk to us!”

They looked at each other and a panic was rising between them.

The principal pressed the button on the intercom and asked his secretary to find out which classroom Jared Cuneo was in—then they rushed to the classroom—the teacher said he had gone to the bathroom.

Frantically, Mary and the principal ran up and down the halls, searching the bathrooms, but Jared was nowhere to be found. They didn’t want to rouse anyone else—everyone would have thought they were crazy. They both hoped they were overreacting. Then Mary’s eyes grew wide. She looked at the principal. “The basement,” she whispered, with a voice that was almost a croak.

The principal didn’t question her, but went and got the key to the basement door. Quickly they rushed over to it … but the door was already open. They rushed down the stairs, calling out, “Corey? Jared?”

The lights had been turned on and when they reached the bottom of the stairs, Mary screamed and turned, seeking the comfort of the principal’s embrace, burying her head into his chest. Jared’s body lay in a pool of blood on the concrete floor. His face was drenched in red but she could tell it was him from the football jersey he wore, with his number, 26. A bloodied broomstick lay next to him. The body was on its side, with one arm stretched outward. She looked to where the arm pointed, at the outstretched finger of the hand, seeming to point to a metal barrel that had a “hazardous material” sign on its side. A word was written in blood on the side of the barrel: “here.” Had Jared dragged the barrel out from storage? Had he written that word, “here” on its side as he lay dying? Or had it been Corey himself?

Mary was sobbing in the principal’s arms and he did his best to comfort her.

That night, she had trouble sleeping—but she took some of the purple lotus pills that Tina had given her. She slipped into a dream and there he was now, standing in front of her, her beautiful boy, but he was drenched in red, his hair matted … her eyes shifted to his hand—what was he holding? It was a broomstick—confused, she searched his eyes, but it was as if it wasn’t the same boy, there was only madness there, wide-eyed, glaring, snarling, hatred and she had never seen it and it frightened her, yet oddly, excited her at the same time, and he was walking toward her, the stick, dropped, clattering on the floor—he was holding his arms out as red streamed, dribbling from his arms. He grinned—that quirky, gentle, lopsided grin that she now knew, that she had once loved. She ran to him with her arms outstretched, careful not to slip on the blood on the floor.

But no matter how long she ran, she could never reach him.

Chapter 12

Review of Bad Boi Pretty’s Not Plain Like You

I have a confession. I loved it, back in the day. The big hair. The tight pants. The pretty pouting boys in heavy makeup. And now, it’s back, and better than ever.

Make no mistake, Bad Boi Pretty is a throwback. This is balls-to-the-wall, heavy-makeup-wearing, loud and unapologetic cock rock. Think early Guns n’ Roses, before they became too big and started to suck. Think early Motley Crue before all the stupid devil shit. Throw in a little bit of Rolling Stones and a whole lot of Rebel Pout and you end up with this album, a heavy-trash-glam-metal stew.

In other words, it sounds like nothing coming out on radio nowadays, but I have high hopes, because the songs on Not Plain Like You are good, so good it hurts. Front man Lotus can scream with the best of them and you can almost feel the spit flying in your face. The lyrics overwhelmingly pursue one major theme, getting girls into bed. Even when he’s mocking a goody-goody girl in the song, “Don’t Do This & That,” sneering, “don’t hate, don’t mate, don’t masturbate, don’t rate, don’t sedate, and don’t berate,” he only a few lines later implores, “don’t, don’t, don’t go home tonight,” proving without a doubt that he’s one of those guys who are only after one thing. In the radio-friendly title-track, “Not Plain Like You,” which is also their first single, Lotus almost approaches social commentary with angry ear-shattering screams against “the plain and boring,” but in case you were beginning to think that he was thinking about anything other than getting tail, he quickly tells the girl he is singing to, “I’m not plain like you, but I want to get you.” Another top cut on the album is the song, “Bush Fire,” though it is hard to imagine how it could ever possibly be allowed on the radio. It’s an energetic song that sounds like a mix of Rebel Pout and the Sex Pistols, and just might, if you’re of the female persuasion, “get your bush fire burning.”

Not Plain Like You is a fun album. And it really rocks. I’m hoping for good things for this band. Bad Boi Pretty may just be glam-metal’s great new hope.—Stacy Gaan

Chapter 13

The Girl Behind the Iron Chastity Belt

Prelude — Austin, Texas, Day 1

Mary was sitting cross-legged under the blanket of her bed that night, with the book, The Nubile Verses, resting in her lap. She wore a headband reading light on her forehead to give her light.

She felt an odd tingling, a premonition, and the little hairs on her arms stood on end.

She flipped through the pages, to the ancient story, “The Girl Behind the Iron Chastity Belt.”

Her father had told her that, the next day, he would fit her with a chastity belt, supposedly to protect her from the “predatory” high school boys—they were often mean and lewd to her since she was still only 15 and a freshman. She felt that if she searched the ancient tome for words of wisdom, they would help guide her way.

She started reading:

from The Nubile Verses:

Legend tells of a beautiful virgin girl, named Tender Bud, wild and untamed, born in the caves of a deep forest. Her violet hair was tangled, knotted, and speckled with leaves and twigs. Her hair was so long that it tickled the backs of her knees as she ran bare-bottomed through the forest with a spear.

They say her mother was once a princess, destined to be Queen, but she ran away into the seclusion of the forest to wile away her days stroking her own violet-colored hair.

But one day, when the girl was still at a tender age, the wild girl’s mother died, so on that day, the girl buried her mother and covered the grave with flowers, then she wandered the forest, weeping.

After many days, she wandered out of the dark forest, which had been her home all her life.

Off in the distance, she saw the gates of a castle and, being a curious sort of girl, she walked along the path that led to them.

When she knocked on the castle gates, the soldiers saw before them a wild, untamed beauty of wide-eyed innocence.

The girl was naked, with two pink nipples like tender buds.

It was so cold outside that she trembled like a little wind-kissed flower, and her pert nipples poked out, as if reaching, straining for hospitality, and a leaf fell and floated down from her hair.

To the guards, she looked wild and uncouth, but even underneath the grime, she was a radiant beauty, with glorious uncombed tresses, the color of violet.

Now Tender Bud was very frightened, for she had never before seen a man, and her mother had warned her of civilized men. Her mother had said that all civilized men wore a mask of sorts, because their tongues always spoke lies to trick girls into love and work their ways into their hearts.

And as she felt the gaze of these civilized men upon her, she shouted out, half in fear, half in pride:

“I am Tender Bud!

Untouched I thrive!

But shall the buds of the trampled revive?”

The gaze of the soldiers traveled up and down the wild, supple curves of her body and the strangeness of her violet hair on all the areas of the body where girls grow hair, but they laid not one rough hand upon the maiden, but instead took her immediately to the King, for they were told to be on the lookout for a wild girl with violet hair who would arrive one day.…

The King was awakened from a drunken slumber, and stumbled into the room in his silk jammies of royal purple.

His eyes became immediately fixated upon the violet down between her thighs and his mind was overwhelmed with the sin of lust.

He wished to ravage her.

He wished to violate her.

He wished to run his fingers through her hair.

Then he was overcome with fear.

His mind recalled the prophesy he’d been told by the Magician, which was as follows:

“One day, a wild, violet-haired girl shall stumble out of the forest and knock at the castle gates. She will be corrupted and given a child by the King of the kingdom, but beware, for her innocence must be voluntarily relinquished lest her innocence turn on he who would corrupt her. She shall have a child, and this child shall usher in a glorious new age. But beware, my King, for if you ever fall in love with an innocent girl, you will only have your heart broken.”

That was the prophesy that the Magician had told him.

The King was a confirmed “enemy of innocence,” but this was an age of history when the powers of innocence were much stronger and, like many men, he only had limited resistance against innocence.

And so, he had the naive, innocent girl ushered to him, but he did not do it to woo her into love, nor to ravage her luscious, wild body, nor to scare her, nor to befriend her, but to kill her, for the prophesy frightened him and he wanted no part of it.

But as he looked into the two big, moist orbs of her eyes beneath those long, fluttering lashes, he could not bring himself to harm someone so innocent.

So he decided that he would not kill her, but that instead, he would do his best to corrupt her so that he might impregnate her, but heeding the Magician’s prophesy, he would not do it by force, but by trickery, and he would make sure to never fall in love with her. And he would make sure that no one else laid a sperm in her.

But looking at this doe-eyed, knock-kneed young girl, he doubted she even knew what sperm was. In fact, she was so naive and sweet, and naturally innocent, that she seemed oblivious to how sinful and lust-provoking her luscious naked body was, with pink nipples and violet pubic hair displayed to all. But much like Eve in the Garden of Eden, once she was informed of the sin and evil of her nakedness, she grew immediately ashamed and turned red all over, like a blush on a rose, and she moved her hands to cover the dainty, delicate female parts that must not be shown.

And the King felt that her daintiness must not be strewn asunder, neither by force nor will, so the King went to the Magician for help. The Magician told him about a device known as a “chastity belt,” which was a device that covered a female’s genitals to prevent intercourse. Then the Magician brought out an ancient, magical chastity belt—it was really not a belt at all, but more like a pair of iron panties, able to be worn for long periods of time, with a magical lock, and the ability to repel, magically, any mortal sperm.

The King had the guards hold Tender Bud’s arms and legs open, then the chastity belt was clamped around her crotch so that her pink labia would no more be displayed.

It was a glorious chastity belt, wrought of the finest iron, adorned with the finest violet amethysts … the entrance to the girl’s treasure was guarded by a plate of shimmering iron in the shape of a heart, and was kept in place by a padlock with a keyhole. The key to the girl’s heart was held by the King himself on a chain he always wore around his neck.

She was naive, and the concept of clothing was new to her, so as she walked about the courtyard in just her chastity belt and a silk blouse, the chastity belt twinkled in the sun gloriously, innocently.

And as she walked about the courtyard amongst the groves of cherry trees, there was a man who was watching her, who was high up in a dreary tower, with his hands grasping the iron bars in a window, staring out at her from behind an iron mask. They called him the Man-behind-the-iron-mask.

She noticed the glint shining out from the metal of his mask as it traveled on the ground and met with the shimmering sparkle between her legs, and her head lifted up and she stood staring at him, before he disappeared within the darkness of the window.

When she walked to the tower, asking to enter, the guards forbid her, saying she was allowed anywhere on the castle grounds except for the tower.

Interlude 1 — Austin, Texas, Day 2

The next day, Mary sat sobbing on top of the closed toilet seat, as the hard metal of the chastity belt bit into the soft flesh of her sides.

She didn’t think Daddy would actually go through with it, but here she was.

She raised her head from her arms, with warm tears running down her cheeks, and shouted at the bathroom door, “I can’t believe you Daddy!”

Her father was outside the door. He shouted back, “I’m doing it to protect you, sweety! Hey, it’s either the chastity belt or Catholic school for you, young lady. Now did you lock it?”

Mary was starting to hyperventilate from her sobbing, which only caused the hard edges of the metal to bite harder into her sides, causing a radiating burning sensation. She shouted back with all the venom she could muster, “Yes, okay! I locked the stupid thing! Are you happy now that your little girl is protected, even though I’ll hate you forever?”

“You’ll be okay. You just have to get used to it.”

Get used to it? Mary looked down at her chastity belt, just a plain piece of stainless steel that fit like a pair of panties with a sliding contraption over her vagina and rear and a padlock in front. What a piece of crap, she thought. It was nothing at all like Tender Bud’s in the story.

She yelled, “You just want me to stay your little girl forever!”

Mary’s father replied, “Maybe I do, but what’s so wrong with that? I’m protecting you! Now are you going to promise me that you won’t allow any boy to unlock or even touch your chastity belt?”

Mary’s face screwed up in rage. “You know what? I don’t promise!”

He calmly replied back in a condescending, fatherly tone. “If you don’t promise, I’m not letting you out.”

So Mary had to agree.

from The Nubile Verses:

One day, the King spoke to Tender Bud.

He said, “Promise me that you will wear this chastity belt and allow only me to ever unlock it.”

Tender Bud looked deeply into his eyes with her own eyes big and wide, and replied, “I promise.” And she was so sweet and innocent that he knew she could not lie.

But then the King panicked and without thinking, blurted, “And promise you shall not allow my brother into the temple between your thighs!”

Her eyes went wide in terror, as if she was terrified of the very concept. “Oh, I promise!”

The King appeared relieved and said, “Because I love you with all my heart, Tender Bud, and someday I will get a divorce and make you my wife!”

Tender Bud arched a delicate brow at these words, for though the King told her often that he loved her, it seemed to Tender Bud that he seemed to wear a mask of lies, but she could see the deception in his eyes.

Tender Bud left the conversation feeling curious, for she did not know that the King had a brother, and it is true also, that the things to which we are forbidden are exactly the things we seek.

So Tender Bud decided to speak to the Magician. The Magician seemed to know very much of what was going on and to have much influence.

So she went to the Magician, for she wanted to know both who was the Man-behind-the-iron-mask, as well as who was the King’s brother. And the thing was, they were one and the same.

At first, the Magician refused to tell her. These were deeply held, dark secrets that no one knew or must know.

But he was not prepared, for when he said, “No, I cannot tell you, little Tender Bud,” the big wide eyes on her innocent little face became really sad and welled up with tears on the verge of falling, and her little mouth curled down miserably in a trembling pout, and the poor Magician was powerless against such a strong force of innocence.

So he told her about the King and his identical twin brother, who was now the Man-behind-the-iron-mask.

They had been born identical twins, but had been separated during a battle in the Hundred-fifty Years War. One brother had become King of the kingdom, the other grew up as a wild boi raised in the forest by monkeys. But one day, the wild boi reunited with his brother and told the King who he was. The King immediately had his brother locked up in a tower and put in a locked iron mask so that no one would ever know who he was.

But the King could not bring himself to kill his twin brother, because they were brothers after all, and besides, since they were identical twins, the King could always use his brother as a decoy during any assassination attempts if he had to, or the King could also use his brother’s organs if he ever needed an organ transplant. And also, the King’s brother was much smarter, and would freely give advice, despite the King’s treatment of him.

The King would come to his brother, the Man-behind-the-iron-mask, and say something like:

“There are two men fighting over a yak, each saying the yak belongs to them. What should I do?”

And his brother, the Man-behind-the-iron-mask, would answer back something like: “Divide the yak in two and give each man a half!”

And the King would go off and do it.

And then the King would ask his brother something like: “Brother, there is another kingdom that is not christian. They mock us in their daily newspapyrus and intentionally deflate the value of their gold.”

And his brother would answer back something like: “Burn all their villages to the ground, salt their fields, and rape all the women above the age of twelve! Drive all their men before you in your chariots and mount their heads on sticks! Let the cries of their children be as music to your ears!”

And the King would go and give the orders for it to be done.

And when the King came to his brother and said something like, “There is a man who has committed adultery against his wife,” the Man-behind-the-iron-mask would say something like: “Make him lie with half a yak as a man lies with a woman!”

And it would be done.

So the Man-behind-the-iron-mask was basically the real King of the kingdom, while his brother took the credit and reaped the benefits, like the gold and the wine and the whores.

But on the day that Tender Bud had arrived, the Man-behind-the-iron-mask had asked the King about the beautiful girl he had seen walking around the court and the question had made the King so furiously jealous that he ordered the guards to hold his brother down and cut out his tongue, and after that day, he could no longer speak, and had to write everything down.

After the Magician had told Tender Bud about the King and his brother, he then told her further of the prophesies he had read in an ancient scroll:

“And lo, violet hair shall be special, a distinction to mark the ‘torch-bearers of innocence.’ And one day, the twins shall be united and the Garden of Delights shall be revealed and there shall come eternal spring after the long winter. And nobility will give way to nubility. And a blond-haired angel will come, who shall release innocence into the world and call the nymphs to return. And all the tender buds of the world will begin to blossom!”

Tender Bud did not understand all of these prophesies, so as she listened, she pouted cutely.

Interlude 2 — Austin, Texas, Day 3

The morning after Daddy had made her put on the chastity belt, Mary was getting ready in the morning to go to school.

She ran the brush through her hair.

Her hair was so beautiful, long, shiny and violet-colored. All the girls envied it.

She stared into her full-length mirror.

She would never dye her hair.

She had done a lot of thinking over the night and had decided that if she had to wear the chastity belt, she would try to play it off with ultra-confidence, as if she had meant to wear it.

She strolled past the mirror, practicing her walk, swaying from side to side, wearing thigh-high patent leather boots, and a black lace bustier.

She had made sure to polish her chastity belt earlier that morning with oil, using circular motions.

Her long, violet tresses swayed with her steps, as her arms and legs gracefully glided through the air.

There was a mischievous glint in her violet-colored eyes, to match the glint in her chastity belt, which she wore completely exposed and uncovered. Even though it was below freezing outside, the belt was very well insulated.

She slipped on her fake fur short jacket and picked up her backpack and got ready to leave.

But that night, after a terrible day at school, she cried into her pillow.

from The Nubile Verses:

When the Magician was done telling Tender Bud all the prophesies, he was silent.

Tender Bud’s big, violet eyes began blinking rapidly, her long, luscious lashes fluttering with her excitement, and she said to the Magician, “I want to meet this Man-behind-the-iron-mask.”

Now the Magician did not say no immediately, but his eyes instead darted from side to side as he thought about whether he wanted to betray the King. “Okay,” he finally replied, because the Magician secretly detested the King.… “I will tell you how, but you must tell no one of this.”

She blinked and nodded and looked adorable and cute.

Indeed, how could the Magician, being only a mortal man, resist her womanly wiles?

The Magician went and locked the door to his chambers, then he went to the giant bookcase against the wall, while Tender Bud watched with big wide eyes. He searched the bookshelf, then pulled out a book … then he went to another shelf, searched and pulled out another book.

The bookcase swung out from the wall and there behind it was a dark, hidden room, and in the room was a single, purple flower in a pot of soil, sitting on a wooden table.

“That’s the lotus,” said the Magician.

Then he went on to explain everything about the power of the lotus to Tender Bud.

The lotus is an ancient magical flower that was carried over from the land of dreams in ancient times and grows from the power of dreams and wishes. It allows its users to dissolve the boundaries between the real world and the dreamworld. In large doses, the effect can be dramatic. However, when the effects of the lotus are combined with the powers of innocence, its effect is even more powerful. Each human soul is allowed one “critical” use of the lotus’s power—this is a single time in each person’s life when the lotus exerts its greatest influence, dissolving the boundaries between the real world and dreams and even allowing the person a choice for an “escape,” which is when a soul crosses over into the dreamworld. Many people live their entire lives never knowing about the power of the lotus or the one critical use of it that their soul is allowed. But Tender Bud now knew of the lotus’s power, and she knew that she was allowed one “critical” use of it.

So, with the Magician gently nudging her, she bent over the lotus flower, let out a long breath, then inhaled deeply with her nose touched to the soft petals.

And she traveled, in a dream, to the tower of the Man-behind-the-iron-mask as he was lying asleep.

They were two souls of the same kind, both forced into chastity against their wills.

The grinding touch of groin to groin was denied to them.

But the touch that could not be denied to them was the kind of touch between two souls—through the eyes.

Her mother used to tell her that all civilized men wore masks, but when she saw him, she could see in his eyes that he was a child of the forest just like she was. And though he wore a real mask, he did not wear the symbolic mask of false smiles that civilized men wore, and his tongue did not speak lies like the King’s did. In fact, he seemed to be the strong, silent type and did not speak at all.

Now, instead of repelling her, the mask stirred her wild-girl’s caged loins.

His green eyes seemed to glimmer with an inner fire, like an emerald held over a flame, and as they gazed into each other’s eyes, underneath her chastity belt, tender bits began to twitch.

In that moment, she fell in lust with him.

Tremblingly, she undid his pants, then let them fall to the ground.

She looked again back into his eyes and she saw that his lust mirrored her own.

She looked down timidly, bit her lip, then looked back up at him.

She unfastened her dress and let it splay into the floor around her. Now she wore only her glistening chastity belt and high heels.

He looked at her with penetrating eyes … through the mask.

But that was enough for her, almost too much.

She was very relieved and her breath quickened, for there was no deception in his eyes, and no mistaking his emotions—she saw only wild, tender lust and her loins cried out to bed him, this unconfusing, uncivilized man.

There was no hesitation in her actions as she undressed him, fondled his male part and felt it stiffening in her hand.

But as his eyes drifted longingly to her crotch, they suddenly flashed confusion upon seeing the padlock there.

On any other day, the girl’s shackled cooch might have quenched the fire of passion between them, but this was a special day—a lotus day—and the girl’s innocent lust would not be denied.

She shouted out:

“I am Tender Bud,

With petals hid from view,

But still I want to be pierced by you!”

In that moment, it was as if Tender Bud suddenly blossomed.

The lotus passion shot through them like a bolt of lightning, then she was shouting,

“Penetrate me! Do it! Corrupt me!”

while she stroked his hard, male rod.

She slapped her cute tummy, which was completely smooth, for this was an age of history before people had belly buttons.

Then she was smacking her tummy over and over again, until it bloomed red, shouting,

“Pierce me fiercely!

Pierce me fiercely!”

There was a sharp pain in the unmarred flesh of her tummy as he thrust his penis in, and began sliding it back and forth.

And so her previously unmarred belly was corrupted.

As red beads of blood rolled down her tummy, he ejaculated inside her and impregnated her.

She returned instantly to the room behind the bookcase, in the shimmering manner in which one moves in a dream.

And that is how legend says that she unwittingly became the second succubus in history (after Lilith).

After about a week, the bloody wound in her tummy healed over, except for a cute, round scar that became known as the belly button.

And that is how the first belly button was created.

In her mind, she had consummated a marriage, so as soon as she was able, she daintily took a needle and pierced her belly button, then inserted a gold ring there to mark what she had done.

Interlude 3 — Austin, Texas, Day 4

That night, after the second day of school wearing the chastity belt, Mary lay crying in her bed again, this time harder than the night before.

As she turned to her side, it almost felt like she was a rolling barrel.

Daddy made her wear the chunky piece of metal even when she slept.

The tears rolled down her face, and she wiped at them with a handkerchief.

Why did kids have to be so cruel?

I always try to be nice, Mary thought, except when my friends make me not be.

On the second day of wearing the chastity belt, the harassment had gotten much worse.

It was true what The Nubile Verses had said about all civilized men wearing masks.

That jerk, Brad, had been the leader of the harassment. He used to be nice to Mary. They had even once almost dated each other before Brad joined the football team and started becoming too popular. A long time ago they had gone to Sunday school together.

Now he harassed her.

She didn’t know why he wouldn’t just leave her alone.

In the fairy tale, Tender Bud’s innocence was supposed to turn on the person who tried to corrupt her against her will. If only that could happen in real life, but Mary wasn’t really sure if she was innocent enough or even what innocence really was. What could someone be besides innocent, anyway?

But it shouldn’t matter if she was innocent or not. Asshole Brad should just learn to watch his tongue. In the story she read, that one guy had his tongue cut out. Sometimes she even wished that in real life, people who deserved it would have their tongues cut out.

She wished that Brad would just disappear from her life.

Unknown to Mary, at that very same moment, Brad was lying in his own bed with his head nodding, slipping into drug-induced slumber. It was the only way he could sleep nowadays. He was up to around five or six pills a day of the street drug they called “purple lotus.”

The pills gave him nightmares sometimes.

He closed his eyes—he was lingering in the realm halfway between reality and dreams—he was dreaming that he saw Mary in her chastity belt—dazedly, he reached down with his right hand and began stroking his hard erection—and he tried to keep from raping her, but he couldn’t and he burst his penis through the chastity belt, but then, he looked up into the sky to see a beautiful pair of green eyes watching him, and he knew somehow that the green eyes would set him free, then Brad sprouted wings, and to punish himself for raping Mary, he smashed his head against the side of the yellow school bus and his head exploded into fireworks.

He’d always had a crush on Mary. She was so beautiful, but she wasn’t popular enough.

from The Nubile Verses:

One day, about a week after Tender Bud was penetrated, the fashions of the court changed to tight, short, belly-revealing shirts.

And when Tender Bud put one of them on and walked around the court, the hole in her tummy was immediately revealed.

With anger and rage, the King glared at her belly and shouted, “What the hell is that?”

Tender Bud’s eyes shifted from side to side as she quickly thought of a lie, then she said, “Oh, my King! I tell you what, I was jumping on a trampoline, and I fell off and accidentally landed on a pole!” and her eyes went wide as she recited this, then she pouted cutely.

And the King felt that she was so naive and innocent that she couldn’t lie, but he had no idea that she had been corrupted and was no longer so innocent.

Then, thinking quickly to try to divert him, she said, “Wanna know a secret?”

“Yes, tell me,” he replied.

She decided to talk fast, so he wouldn’t think too much about her words … she knew she was pregnant, and she knew how jealous he would be if he found out, so she wanted to trick the King.

She bit her lip, then looked deviously into his eyes, as she said, “I want you to take me. Take my innocence … corrupt me.”

His eyes went wide in surprise, as if he couldn’t believe it was really happening.

She lifted her dress up, revealing the heart-shaped piece of iron hugging her tender loins.

She proclaimed:

“I am Tender Bud!

And you have the key to my heart!

Now unlock my thighs and pierce my girly part!”

The King always carried the key to Tender Bud’s treasure on a chain around his neck, just in case she ever gave him permission to pillage her womanly treasure chest and he lifted the chain up over his head.

“Corrupt me,” she whimpered and kneeled before him, with her head bowed. “Corrupt me, oh my King.”

So he took the key and unlocked the chastity belt and entered her glorious woman-hole like an explorer exploring the inner domain of an undiscovered land.

But there was no impediment to the sliding of his penis, for the only covering to her hole had been the chastity belt, because this was an age of history before girls had hymens.

But on the day that the King penetrated Tender Bud, he went to tell the Man-behind-the-iron-mask about it and how good it had felt to be inside of her. The Man-behind-the-iron-mask listened, then on a piece of paper he wrote, I wish I could slide between her pink labia. The words made the King so furiously jealous that he ordered the guards to hold his brother down and cut off his penis and that is how the Man-behind-the-iron-mask became a eunuch, which is a fancy word for a man who’s had his dick cut off.

Interlude 4 — Austin, Texas, Day 5

It was cold that morning. In fact, the weather people had been commenting that the past few winters in Austin had been much colder than usual and it seemed to be getting colder each year. No one knew why.

Brad, the asshole football player, and four of his fellow asshole football player friends were driving to school in Brad’s SUV on that cold, winter morning.

Brad knew which bus stop Mary waited at every morning—it was on a street corner in their Nice Suburban Neighborhood. He made sure to pass by it today.

He was going to impress his buddies.

He stopped just around the corner from the bus stop.

He was already buzzing from three purple lotuses he had taken that morning and he popped another into his mouth, then washed it down with some diet soda.

All the other guys inside the SUV started talking:

“What’s going on?”

“Why are we stopping?”

Brad grinned a big, wicked grin, and said, “You know that bitch who wears the chastity belt?”

They all said that they did know her, and that her name was Mary.

Brad looked over at Josh, and said, “Josh, reach down under the seat.…”

With a surprised sort of expression, Josh pulled out a bolt-cutter.

Brad then said, “I’m gonna cut that lock on that girl’s steel panties and feel her twat.” And he laughed a druggy sort of laugh.

There was a pause, then everyone else started laughing, then giggling, because everyone else had been taking purple lotuses too.

Then when they had all stopped, and were catching their breaths, Brad said, “Come on, guys. You all hold her arms and I’ll cut the lock real quick, and then we’ll take off, okay?”

All the guys agreed.

Brad drove the SUV and turned the corner.

There was Mary, standing in black and white striped thigh-high socks and a bulky hot-pink jacket and, just like yesterday, she wore her chastity belt exposed.

He found himself staring at her, his eyes roving up and down her. She sure had changed a lot since Sunday school.

Damn, she was so cute and sexy. He never admitted it to anyone, but he’d had a crush on her ever since the 3rd grade.

She had such beautiful violet-colored hair, even though everyone said she should try to fit in and just dye it blond.

He wondered if she had violet-colored hair down … there.

For a brief moment, he felt bad for what he was about to do, but hey, she was a stupid freshman and they deserved it anyway.

They stopped in the middle of the street and everyone piled out of the SUV. There was another boy and a girl at the bus stop, but they didn’t look like they’d do anything.

The other guys grabbed Mary’s arms and one held his hand over her mouth.

Brad approached her with the bolt-cutter in his hand.

He felt a surge of excitement to see her so helpless, the look of fear in her eyes, the panicked breaths that in the cold air looked like puffs of smoke coming out of her nose.

How he’d love to lick those cold tears rolling out of her eyes.

He raised the bolt-cutter and fixed his eyes on the padlock on her chastity belt.

He looked into her eyes once again to see the fear, but those violet eyes squinted back at him. They were calm.

He began to feel dizzy. In confusion, he stared again at her steel-covered crotch.

He wanted to feel her … there. He wanted to feel how soft, how … wet.

In Sunday school, when they were little kids … she’d turned him down, she’d never let him see her naked.

The other guys were yelling, “Come on, Brad, hurry up!” but he barely noticed.

He kneeled in front of Mary—Mary was so beautiful—he wanted to taste her.

He started to lean in, he extended his tongue.…

The other guys were yelling at him now.…

And he touched his tongue to the front of Mary’s chastity belt.

Somebody laughed.

It was Mary.

He felt a surge of energy through his body at the instant his tongue touched and something inside of him knew what it was—it was innocence.

He felt his heart quicken as a panic came over him.

He tried to pull his head back, but he couldn’t.

He suddenly realized that his tongue had frozen to the cold metal of her chastity belt.

All the guys started yelling and Mary stumbled a little as the guys let her go.

But Mary was giggling. She had such a cute giggle.

Then all the memories from Sunday school flooded into him, all at once. After class, they’d play together.

They’d held hands, they used to sit on the swings together. Sometimes they’d fight and he’d pull her hair.

And they’d sit in Sunday school and read bible passages.

Tears started streaming down his face. It was too much to take.

He pulled back and pulled Mary a little forward on her feet, but his tongue still did not come free.

She only giggled louder.

In desperation, he was waving his arms, then he felt the bolt-cutter being lifted out of his hand.…

After a few moments, he heard the metallic sound of the lever closing shut—and his head jerked back and he fell on the ground and realized that he was free.

He stared in disbelief at the front of Mary’s chastity belt.

His eyes widened in terror to see the tip of his tongue still stuck to it.…

And Mary was giggling and pointing at him and sticking her tongue out to mock him.

Blood was dribbling down the front of Brad’s letterman jacket.

He brought his hands up to cover his ears, because the words were repeating over and over in his head—words from Sunday school, from the bible:

~*Proverbs 10:31 The mouth of the righteous brings forth wisdom, but a perverse tongue will be cut out.*~

It was like a whispering in his ears.

He looked at the faces of all the other guys to see if they could hear the words too, but they only looked back with horrified expressions on their faces.

In sudden terror, he stood up and ran back to the SUV and got in to drive away as everyone stood watching.

He felt complete certainty of what he had to do as he started the engine, as the new words entered his head:

~*Matthew 5:29 Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart. And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.*~

He started driving off. He had to get home.…

~*Matthew 5:30 And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.*~

He knew now what the whispering voice was telling him to do. He had to get home. He was almost there.

The last words he heard before pulling into the driveway were from Matthew 19:12.

~*For there are some eunuchs, which were so born from their mother’s womb: and there are some eunuchs, which were made eunuchs of men: and there are eunuchs, which have made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven’s sake. He that is able to receive it, let him receive it.*~

from The Nubile Verses:

The King had his wife, the Queen, beheaded, supposedly for committing adultery. He then married Tender Bud and looked forward to having a son who would bring in a glorious new age and rule the kingdom with an iron fist. The King was relieved when Tender Bud’s tummy began showing that she was pregnant.

As the months went by, Tender Bud’s belly became bigger and bigger, until her belly button even turned inside out.

Then one day, she gave birth, and bursting forth from her belly came a beautiful little baby girl they named “Tender Kiss,” because she had such beautiful, pouty little lips, that you just had to kiss—how they quivered in a pout, ached to be touched—they would make you swoon, they’d bring you to your knees, begging “Please, baby please, bestow a kiss upon me!”

And she would only smirk at you and shout, “No!” as if knowing how valuable a commodity her kiss was, and yet, in innocent cruelty, denying that pleasure to another.

Tender Kiss was a beautiful little girl, with long, silken violet hair, almost as long as she was tall, because she was still a little girl, and her little body was short.

Her face was naive and innocent-looking, even more than her mother’s.

And her little body showed the physical manifestations of innocence and corruption mixed, for it is true that she was the first child to be born with the physical legacy of Tender Bud’s tummy-penetration: the fingertip-yearning belly button.

And there, within the warm folds between her thighs, nestled the very first manifestation of the girl-symbol of chastity—it had grown in sympathy of Tender Bud’s chastity belt, a flap of skin, a fleshy girl-hole covering, a miniature flesh version of a chastity belt, the very first hymen.

And despite the fact that he had been expecting a son, the King adored his little girl, his little angel, his sweet Tender Kiss.

He would look at her always adoringly and say, “Ah, my adorable little Tender Kiss, when you grow up, you’re going to be such a heartbreaker!”

And she would proclaim:

“I am Tender Kiss!

I’m small but growing taller every day!”

And playfully, he would shout back, “But not tall enough to kiss my heart today!”

But each day, little by little, Tender Kiss became a little bit taller, until one day she was tall enough, while standing on her tiptoes, to kiss the King’s heart.

And she shouted,

“I am Tender Kiss

I am small, but I’m growing taller every day!

And now I’m tall enough to kiss your heart today!”

She looked up at him with big, wide, innocent eyes.

And she stood daintily on her tippy toes and she puckered up and, “Mwah!” she kissed his chest where his heart beat beneath.

And in that moment, when she kissed him with those sweet tender lips, there was a sudden transfer of innocence from her lips to his heart, and the sudden surge of innocence through his body was too much of a shock to the King’s corrupted soul, so as Tender Kiss’s lips touched the King’s heart, blood drooled out of his mouth and nose, then his eyeballs exploded and he fell over, dead.

The only people in the room to witness this were Tender Bud, Tender Kiss, and the Magician.

The Magician quickly brought the Man-behind-the-iron-mask to the chambers. The Magician then got a knife and cut the still-warm, former King’s tongue out, then cut off his penis and transplanted them to his brother and from that point he could fuck and talk and perform cunnilingus again.

They broke the iron mask, and the former Man-behind-the-iron-mask took the place of his brother, and the public was none the wiser. Then the new King and Tender Bud and Tender Kiss ushered in a new age for the kingdom, an age when nubility ruled the kingdom, an age of innocence.

But it is said that one day, Tender Kiss ran and kept running, away into the forest, where it is said she spent the rest of her days in the Garden of Innocence and Youthful Bliss, where she frolicked with the nymphs of the garden and knew no other desires.

Conclusion — Austin, Texas, Day 6

“Thank you, Daddy,” Mary said meekly with her head bowed. She wanted to stay on his good side and not rub it in. She gently took the key from his hand, grasped it and held it with her hands against her chest, and her head still bowed.

She glanced down at the encasing piece of metal that had been snuggling her coochie for the past few days.

Daddy lowered his head and mumbled that he was sorry and Mary said, “Okay,” and closed the door to her room.

She was still shaken up from what had happened and had been allowed to take a week off from school. Daddy had even said that maybe public school was a little too rough and maybe he should send her to Catholic school.

He’d said there were too many asshole boys like Brad in public school.

She couldn’t believe Brad had actually done that to himself. They’d found him in his home, with the tip of his tongue cut off, with one eye gouged out, his right hand cut off, and … he’d castrated himself. And then he’d stuck everything down the garbage disposal. He’d almost bled to death, but luckily paramedics had gotten to him in time, and now he was in the hospital. They’d been unable to reattach any of the body parts, except the tip of his tongue they’d come and taken off of her chastity belt. They said he’d gone temporarily insane due to drug intoxication—they said he’d written a note that said he wanted to “purify” himself because he was corrupted.

She shook her head.

Mary thought about the prophesy from the story. She couldn’t shake the strange feeling that it had something to do with her—she did have violet hair, and it had always seemed like strange things had always been happening to her, ever since she was a little girl. She repeated the words from the story: “The twins shall be united.…” She shrugged. She’d once babysat for a girl who had a brother and sister who were twins.

She unlocked the chastity belt with the key. She repeated to herself more of the prophesy: “And the Garden of Delights shall be revealed.…” She thought about that as she stepped out of the chastity belt.

“And there shall come eternal spring after the long winter? Well, spring always comes after winter, doesn’t it?” She didn’t understand that part of the prophesy. “And a blond-haired angel will come.…” She looked down at her own violet pubic hair. “Oh well,” she said, then she sighed. “Maybe the prophesy doesn’t have to do with me after all.”

She looked into her full-length mirror, and did a wiggly dance. It was good to be free again, because,

“Chastity is hardly felt,

Unless of course you wear the belt!”

She giggled at the rhyme she had made up.

Chapter 14

Skinny-Dipping in the Abyss

She was

~*dainty and cute with a bow on her head

~*~*she was sweet and pure with white cotton panties between her thighs

~*a delicate flower—

Named: Tina (big, brown-eyed, looking out at the world with fluttering, dark eyelashes and a pouty mouth, with moist, fresh lips—only kissed three times.)

She had the allure of adorability and the aura of chastity.

Yes, she was a virgin and it was a condition that had plagued her ever since she had been born.

She fretted and worried about it constantly.

Should she wait until she got married—or was it okay to do the deed with someone special, who loved her and who she loved back with a love eternal and unconditional?

She wanted to make sure that the first time was with a very nice boy. She didn’t like mean boys, and she didn’t like doing naughty things—which was why she felt so puzzled at this moment. Why was she behaving in such a manner?

She unbuttoned the last button on her blouse, and slid it off her shoulders.

The other girls at her all-girl Catholic school said she was overly-obsessed with her virginal state. They said it was no big deal, because they were all going to wait until marriage to obtain carnal knowledge—

But for Tina, the idea haunted her, because she wasn’t entirely sure if she wanted to wait until marriage.

She felt it was the biggest decision of her entire life.

A girl’s virginity was the single, most precious gift a woman could give to a man, and once given, it was lost forever—

And like a single, dainty flower, tended to and pruned in a garden, a girl would blossom, but once shorn from its soil-base of purity and innocence, it would be held captive in its glass vase cage, left to be adored, but never again pure and untouched by human hands, only day by day wilting, its petals dropping.…

Her pleated, plaid skirt fell to the sand, then seconds later, the bra and the white cotton panties. She left the bow on top of her head—she had no intention of dunking her head underwater anyway. She hated having to wear those skirts everyday. She’d been forced into Catholic school a few months ago, simply because her friend Mary had almost been raped, and in a bout of parental overprotection, both sets of parents had decided to sequester their daughters in that godforsaken school.

“Don’t look! Don’t turn around yet!” she called to the boy. He did as she said, even though it was so dark, he probably wouldn’t have been able to make out much of anything, anyway. She kept her pubic hair well-groomed, though she didn’t know why if no one ever saw it.

Tina slid into the cool water of the lake. It almost felt like she was falling into the water because of all the wine she had drank—she wasn’t a very experienced drinker.

Her full breasts, recently released from their bra confinement, immediately began levitating and separating buoyantly, set free from the tyranny of gravity.

She began giggling.

“Now you!” she shouted towards the shore as she waded in the water. The water was cooler than she thought it would be.

“Okay,” the boy replied with the goofy voice that cracked every once in a while. “But don’t stare.” And he started unbuckling his belt while all the while looking back at her as if he was seeking encouragement or something.

Tina watched the boy while the warm calm of the alcohol shimmered through her body, mixed with the gentle feeling of water surrounding her. She watched with greedy eyes, hungry for the experience. She’d never seen a naked boy before.

The light from the moon made the top of the boy’s head glow, but really he was just a dark anonymous shape in the dark—she could see that he was skinny with shoulder blades poking out and a weird round tummy and she watched as the shape of the boy went from clothed to naked, while the whole time, he glanced at her in embarrassment.

She rolled her eyes.

She felt a sudden surge of disappointment. How could she have experienced so much disappointment when she was still so young?

Slowly, she turned her head away from the boy and out upon the water, no longer interested.

But it felt so good to be young and carefree, to experience the excitement of the new. She grinned, but then suddenly a wave of sadness overwhelmed her—because she suddenly became aware of how uncertain and scary the future was.

Waves of sadness crashed over her, licking at her flesh, slowly lifting and raising her in its wet embrace, groping her full breasts and toying with her hair.

She took a deep breath, her head swimming from the pleasure—she seemed to be teetering back and forth between pleasure and sadness—but she was feeling okay now, so she would enjoy it.

She closed her eyes. For a moment, she imagined that she was alone in the lake and the night—she imagined it was an ocean.

It was much like her life. She felt she was floating in a great sea of uncertainty, not knowing how to get out of it, waiting to be rescued. It was hard being a teen.

All the swirling desires, like a soup of lust.

And it was strange how things become obscured and distorted by the refractions of swaying water.

The alcohol pushed strange images and thoughts through her mind.

Hair-pulling and abuse, abandonment and loss, was all here surrounding her, swirling through her and mixing with her in the swells of the water. And makeup products and bouncing balls, symbol of childhood playing. Swirling around her in the oceanic soup. Razors and ponies and ever-increasing bra sizes.

She gently moved her arms and legs, keeping her head above the water and she found herself contemplating the tides—how a person’s affection is like the tides—it must ultimately fall back, because it cannot be sustained—this had become painfully clear to her lately through a series of heartbreaking breakups. She’d seen how if you give affection, you must inevitably retract it.

—but she felt so free now, free and naked.

The boy—she had forgotten his name (John or Jake or Jeb or one of those “J” names)—the boy she had met at the party—was staring stupidly at her with his head above the water. His nose was big, his clothes were not very impressive, but that was okay. She liked the shyness he carried himself with—it made her feel more in control—and the clothes didn’t matter so much, because now they sat resting on the beach.

“You’re real pretty,” he said.

She giggled at him—he was so goofy.

She felt like she was outside herself watching herself. And she smirked, smirked because of the allure of the forbidden, shimmering through her body. “Gonna corrupt me?” she asked with a musical voice, and she tilted her head with a fetching look. But now she was mocking him, saying, “You know you aren’t going to get any action tonight, right?”

The look of disappointment that came over his face almost looked like he had been hit—she got a sadistic pleasure from it.

She realized that she had still never seen a boy naked, even though she was now naked herself and just feet away from a naked boy—she still couldn’t see through the water and the darkness.

“You ever have sex in the water?” the boy asked. “My brother did. He says it’s awesome.”

Tina rolled her eyes, though she realized immediately after doing it that he probably couldn’t see. “I think your brother is immature,” she said with all the derision she could muster, trying to cover up her fear.

His voice sounded immediately deflated. “Oh yeah, I guess he is, kinda.”

They had driven to the lake on a whim, propelled by the wild passion of spontaneous adventure, but now that they were actually here in the water, they looked at each other, not knowing what to do.…

And it suddenly began to feel creepy, as Tina realized with a tinge of fear, that the alcohol was making her limbs more clumsy and making her disoriented. Maybe it hadn’t been such a great idea, and besides the excitement had passed. Now she felt empty again.

After a few minutes of swimming, they silently treaded in the water. The boy yawned.

Tina started trembling. “It’s cold in here,” she said.

“Yeah,” the boy replied. “Maybe we should go back in the car. I can turn the heater on.”

“Okay,” Tina said, “but you go first. I don’t want you to see me.” And, she thought, she could have another chance to watch him.…

“Okay.” He started swimming back to shore.

She lazily swam backward while she watched him swimming toward shore. Then as she was drawing her arm back, her hand slapped into something oddly soft and solid at the same time. She flinched in surprise and turned to look.

Her mind didn’t want to believe what it was seeing there floating in the water.

It was a man.

Dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, floating face-down in the water, bobbing with the undulating waves, in synchrony with the gentle lifting and drop of Tina’s full breasts—and her breathing quickened, with the sudden unexpected pleasure, with the red flush of excitement creeping from her chest, climbing her neck and warming her cheeks.

She looked to the shore, but the boy hadn’t noticed—he was too busy dressing and it was too dark to see anything, anyway.

She pressed her hand to the man’s neck, but she knew already that she wouldn’t find a pulse. He was dead. His flesh was cold.

Excitement exploded inside of her, surged through her body and made her arms and legs tremble as they glided through the water.

Everyone had always said she was so sweet and innocent, but if she was so innocent, why was the presence of this dead man next to her making her heart thump and causing her pussy to twitch? Was it because it was so wrong?

She debated for a moment whether to yell to the boy on the shore, who was putting his shoes on now. But then the allure of the forbidden seduced her. Naughty thoughts flashed through her mind—she pushed all the good-girl thoughts out. Why did she have to say anything? The man was already dead. If she reported the body, she would only get herself in trouble for drinking and for skinny-dipping with a strange boy. The body would be found soon enough. Her breath shuddered and an unbidden moan rose up and left her lips as she thought, I won’t tell, and no one will know. My little secret.

Then impulsively, she ran her hands as well as she could over the body’s torso. She was searching for a wallet, but she was too drunk and the body kept shifting—she felt a holster of some kind, tried to put her hand in the front pocket, but the body shifted away from her hand—she brought her hand back up to the body’s waist, opened the holster. It felt like a cell phone. With hands shaking, she brought the cell phone out. A little souvenir, she thought. She wondered if it was waterproof, if it would ring. She gently nudged the body away from her, then began swimming toward shore.

When she got onto the shore, the boy did not notice the cell phone in her hand.

And she looked out and watched the dark shape of the body—it seemed to be creeping toward shore, almost as if it was following her. She felt goose bumps pop up on her skin and she shuddered with excitement, she was almost overwhelmed with the feeling, but the boy seemed not to notice—however, she wondered if he noticed that as the water rolled down her skin and dribbled off her, that her nipples were hard.

She fell over a couple of times as she drunkenly dried herself with the towels they’d brought and got dressed again. And this time the boy was watching her, but she let him.

Then in the car, while they were driving home with the heat on, there was also a heat rising between her thighs—she felt the cell phone begin to vibrate in her hand, to hum against her palm—it made her thighs spread slightly—made her pussy wet—at a stop light, she grabbed the boy’s hand and placed it there. She realized that in her drunkenness, she had forgotten to put her panties back on, but that was okay, because it provided easy access.

The boy’s surprised expression was amusing to her.

And it excited her so much to have been that close to death and danger, that she wanted to squeeze every ounce of desire from that night.

“Take my virginity tonight,” she said.

She told him to turn off onto a dark side street. They parked by a house, got into the backseat and she allowed the boy to take her virginity.

And she was panting with the thrill of the possibility of getting caught and when she moaned it was with the writhing pleasure of sex sex sex.

She crawled back into the window of her house at around three in the morning.

Afterwards, she was wide awake, still intoxicated by the memory of her encounter with the dead man—she was lying in bed with the phone resting next to her. She was twitching with the excitement of the evening and replaying the events in her head. The phone had begun to get constant calls—it was set on the vibrate setting. The caller id display showed each call as coming from “Ann Spector.” She never answered the phone, but every time it would vibrate with an incoming call, her head would want to lean back and her thighs would want to open. A few times, when it would vibrate, she’d take a breath and press it against her pussy. The phone rang all night.

When the morning paper arrived, she hungrily scoured the articles, but could not find any stories about the dead man.

The phone stopped receiving calls as frequently. But it would still tremble in her pocket a couple of times an hour, while she was sitting in class—she couldn’t concentrate all day, and was criticized for not paying attention.

After school, she couldn’t take her mind off the previous evening. She tried to imagine what it would feel like to actually be that body, floating calmly face-down in the water, trying not to be too conspicuous, or too desperate, just waiting for a pretty young girl to discover him, to touch him in a way she never would have done during his life—and this new perspective of thinking renewed her excitement again.

She had a big, plastic doll that she had kept from when she was much younger—it even used to be the same size as her.

She brought it out from the closet. She filled the bathtub with water and set the doll afloat face-down.

And this made her skin tingle and crawl with a mixture of titillation and horror.

She sat in a chair, watching the doll, and when the phone would vibrate, sometimes she’d press it again between her legs.

She debated whether to answer the phone, her mind switching from the trembling excitement of almost answering, to the terrifying fear that halted her hand from pressing the talk button.

But she sat with a bottle of wine at her side. She would keep taking gulps, and it made her more courageous. Then impulsively, as it was vibrating, she pressed the talk button, answered drunkenly, “Hello?”

There was a pause of silence on the other line. Then an old lady—must have been about 40—spoke, “Who is this?”

Tina feigned surprise: “Oh no! Is this his wife?”

“Yes, this is his wife!”—Tina found the panic in the lady’s voice absolutely exhilarating. With a choked voice, the lady asked, “Who the hell are you? Where is Tim? I just want to know if he’s okay. Please, just—”

Tina was cackling almost insanely, “I got really wet when I was with your husband! When I left him, I was dripping! Well, bye bitch!”

And she hung up and she was trembling so much with the rush of adrenalin, she had to spread her legs again and as the phone vibrated with the constant calls, she orgasmed over and over again, and then finally passed out.

In the morning, she found that the power in the cell phone had run out. With her adventure over, she returned to being a normal girl, a good girl, but lusting for more kicks.

She was still drunk when the newspaper arrived. She looked through it and found the article:

Body found on beach

By Dale Mowen

Austin Morning News

The body of a man, identified as Tim Spector, was found on the shore of Town Lake earlier this morning. It is believed that the body had been floating in the water before washing ashore, but it is unclear how the man’s fully-clothed body entered the water. A coworker of the man, Gary Hostetter, said that Spector complained of chest pain Thursday afternoon, but that Spector “seemed unconcerned.” Hostetter also said that Spector frequently fished on Town Lake. The death “is considered natural at this point,” Lt. Bob Caveda of the Travis County Sheriff’s Office said. According to the anonymous eyewitness who discovered the body earlier this morning, “I thought he was a homeless man sleeping on the beach, but I soon realized he was dead. I don’t know the man or anything about how he died, but I thought it was weird that right next to where he was lying was a bottle of wine and—here’s the strange thing—a pair of women’s panties.”

Chapter 15

The Worst Christmas Ever

T’was the night before Christmas,

And all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, except Mary with her blouse.

Her stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

Mary walked into her room in a white silk blouse and a black lace thong, unbuttoning the blouse while daintily stepping over a pineapple pizza box from the night before. She slid the blouse off her shoulders and went to hang it in her closet, then went and stood in front of her full-length mirror in just her bra and panties. Her nubile, sixteen-year-old body looked so good it hurt. Her eyes were violet—to look into them was like a lotus dream, her red mouth was like a venomous rose, set in perpetual pout, her skin was pale from the months of winter, peaches and cream. She was a sweet mixture of naughty and nice—the quintessential bitchy, doe-eyed blond.

She turned her backside to the mirror, admired the sweet groove of her ass.

Her ass had really matured in the last few years, had grown more plump and round. She smacked it, and the loud sound revealed an ass that was firm from doing various exercises, such as squats. Oh, how it jiggled, how it swayed. The cherubs cried when she walked into a room, and suddenly that room became an anointed holy altar to her ass. Her ass was a work of art that should be framed. Had she lived in the time of the bards, they would have written epic poems of grandeur praising her ass, such as this one:

Oh, what is that sweet bulb conjoined to those thighs?

Sweet bulb of flesh that brings tears to mine eyes?

It is an onion ass, lush and full and round!

It is her onion ass, that when smacked makes glorious sound!

She started singing along to the Bad Boi Pretty song on the radio, “Coming with a torch, uouhhh!! … Coming with a torch, ouh, make the bush fire bigger! Oh, sweet sister, make it bigger, make it bigger!” She started to shake her ass. She shook it to the left, she shook it to the right.

She smacked her ass again, so hard that it left a red mark.

She grabbed a handful of booty and jiggled it—everyone wanted a piece of this, it was irresistible, and tonight she would use it to seduce Santa.…

She couldn’t wait to tell all her friends afterward. She had aligned herself with the preps, and dutifully changed her wardrobe every few weeks as dictated by her ruling corporate store, known as, “The Wank,” a store providing, “contemporary, noninflammatory fashions for lower to median middle class suburban white kids.” She was also a member of a high school sorority and had gladly been urinated and defecated on during initiation. She was, after all, willing to do anything to fit in and not stand out—she’d even dyed her naturally-violet hair blond. She simply didn’t understand why anyone would want to be distinctive and special, when it was so much more comforting to give yourself over to a group.

Her passions were cheerleading and gymnastics. She hoped someday she would make it to the pros.

And she was a good Catholic girl, as pure as the driven snow.

Of course, sure she had done things.…

She’d of course had the obligatory sexual encounters with a few Catholic priests. She’d been kissed, fondled, undressed and stared at. And one time, a group of five priests had told her that to absolve her sins, she’d have to perform a special ceremony … so they’d formed a circle around her and she’d had to suck each one of them off, one by one while the others watched. But what did you expect from priests? It was no big deal. After all, she was still a virgin, and

HER HYMEN WAS INTACT.

She’d also done anal with a few of them, but of course that didn’t count as real sex, since it hadn’t been in her other hole. The first few times, it had been uncomfortable, but around the fourth or fifth time, she’d grown to like it.

She’d once even anally fisted one of the priests. (She’d learned how from her brother, who was a frat-boi at the university.)

She’d once even anally fisted herself, just out of curiosity. The bible didn’t say anything against it. And she figured it was okay since it didn’t hurt her hymen.

But really, though, she was a good girl.

She’d never even masturbated. The closest she’d ever come was when she’d been caressed between her legs for a while by the family doctor when she was a little girl, but that had only been to test if her genitalia was functioning properly, and after all, it hadn’t been her hand down there.

And though she’d come close, she’d never had an orgasm, praise the lord.

She turned around to face the mirror, then pulled her panties down to her knees.

Her pussy was shaved and bright pink—the inverted triangle glowed out from the pale skin of her thighs, and a gold ring dangled from her clit, sparkling in the light. Her girl place twitched in anticipation of what was to come later that night.

She liked to shave her pussy, because that way, when she wore her skintight hotpants, you could really see the outline of her clit ring as well as the notch and crevice of her cunny, which she liked to show off. She got a lot of compliments on her “camel toe.” (“Camel toe” was the slang term for when clothing hugged girls’ genitalia so tightly that its shape was revealed to the world.)

She liked to refer to her pussy as her “driven snow.”

It was a bit of an inside joke. She’d always fantasized about losing her virginity to Santa, ever since she was a little girl. Yes, she’d had countless fantasies about him “dashing through her snow.”

She reached down and diddled her clit ring. It twinkled in the light like a star.

BLINKY BLINKY BLINK

She had done it herself, so it wasn’t like anyone had seen her pink girl-place. Besides, there wasn’t anything in the bible against piercing your jelly bean.

And as she looked in the mirror, admiring her cunny, she began to sing a song:

O, clit ring, are you glistening?

If I cum are you listening?

A beautiful sight,

Is my slit tonight.

Sliding in a girly wonderland!

In the mirror, her pussy grew a bit redder, glowing with the smoldering embers of lust.

She looked at her alarm clock. It was sixteen minutes until midnight.

SOON HER HYMEN WOULD BE BROKEN.

She felt a mixture of sadness and excitement about that fact.

She pulled her panties all the way down, then stepped out of them.

She dragged the mirror up to foot of her bed, then crawled onto the bed and lay on her back.

She spread her legs in front of the mirror, then reached between her thighs with both hands, and pulled her pussy open and looked at her hymen.

It was so beautiful. It was like a beautiful flower, finally coming into full bloom—her gift that she would give to Santa.

She looked at the clock again. Thirteen more minutes until midnight. She was feeling anxious and fidgety. She had to calm down.

She decided to do some stretches.…

She had to remain extremely limber for the sake of her gymnastics and cheerleading. She kept to a rigorous stretching routine, several times a day. Her gymnastics coach was really strict about using exactly the right technique and form and he would even often take pictures of her during her stretching routines so he could look at them later and make sure she was doing everything exactly right. Sometimes he even took close-ups in order to inspect every particular aspect of her form.

Stretching would help calm her down, and besides, she figured that for what she was about to do it might help to be loosened up.

She stood by the side of her bed and bent all the way over and touched her toes. She grabbed her ankles while she was bent over and pulled and bounced.

She stood back up, grabbed her ankle then yanked her left foot to behind her head, and balanced that way for a few seconds.

She lowered her leg, then did the full splits on the floor, feeling the stretch and bouncing a little on the carpet.

Then she sat on her bottom, and pulled each leg up and hooked each foot behind her head and rocked back and forth. Mmmmmm, she was thinking, it felt soooo goooooddddd to streeeeetccchhhh.

She was horny now. Between her legs, things felt tingly.

Just then her Daddy knocked on the door and said, “Angel?”

“Just a second, Daddy.” She unhooked her legs and quickly grabbed a short skirt off the floor and wrapped it around herself.

She opened the door. Daddy was still wearing his shirt and tie.

“Merry Christmas!” Mary shouted.

“Merry Christmas, angel.” And he kissed her forehead and wiped the hair from her face with fatherly gentleness. “Did you leave cookies for Santa?”

“Yes, Daddy, and milk too.” She could tell that Daddy was already drunk and would soon be passed out in bed.

“Okay, well I’m going to bed now. You make sure you go to bed too, or Santa won’t come tonight.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Daddy.” And there was a bit of a mischievous tinge to her grin.

“Okay. Goodnight, honey. See you tomorrow morning.”

“Goodnight, Daddy,” she answered back, then Daddy closed the door.

Daddy had fingered her a few times, but it had only been to see if she was still pure. It had even oddly felt good, but she figured the nice feeling was the good feeling from knowing that her Daddy cared about her soul.

But she passed the test every time, because

HER HYMEN WAS INTACT.

She was Daddy’s little girl.

But not after tonight, she thought with a mischievous grin. Daddy’s little girl was growing up. If Daddy ever checked again, she would just tell him she’d accidentally sat on a stick.

Soon Daddy would be passed out, sleeping like a rock, and no one else would be in the house.

She grinned. In a few minutes, she would give herself to Santa. She’d always had a thing for Santa, ever since she was a little girl.

She’d always fantasized about it. She wanted to lick his jiggling, pasty white belly. She wanted to sit on his lap, wearing a short skirt and nothing underneath. She would straddle his thigh and move back and forth … as Santa grew hard under those red pants, then he would roughly flip her over his lap, raise her skirt up, and begin smacking her bottom over and over, reddening it with the blushes of his amorous blows, as tears came to her eyes and she screamed out in ecstacy and pain.

Oh, my, she thought. She was getting flushed, and she softly caressed her cheek with the backs of her fingers.

She looked at the clock and her heart jumped. It was a minute until midnight!

Out on the lawn there arose a big clatter, so

Away to the window she flew like a flash!

Tore open her skirt and unveiled her gash!

The moon on her breast as if on driven snow,

Gave the luster of mid-day to her object below!

Through the window, she saw Santa Claus, sitting in a sleigh in the snow, with eight reindeer pulling it. His eyes met hers and he was drawn into her big peepers—he saw the lust there, the sixteen years of pent-up carnal lust becoming unwound as she looked back intensely, her eyes narrowing.…

Girls had tried it before on him. Santa was a very popular sort of lust object. He filled a need many girls had inside—he cared, he gave gifts. Many little girls’ early memories were comprised of the joy they felt sitting on his lap. Little girls often felt a great deal of affection for him, and as they came into age, those feelings often crossed over into lust.…

Normally he sent them back to bed.

But this wasn’t an ordinary Christmas and Mary wasn’t an ordinary girl.…

As Santa stood mesmerized, staring longingly into this gorgeous girl’s violet eyes, the seconds were counting down to midnight … tick tick tick.…

It was midnight … and at that instant, seven thousand miles away, as a symbolic act of war, a nuclear warhead was dropped on Bethlehem, immediately destroying it.

And in that instant, things changed forever.

The sudden destruction of that holy city sent ripples of energy throughout the world—it wasn’t nuclear energy—it was some sort of wave of sorrow that touched deep inside the soul of every single human being on the planet. In that instant, each and every human being in the world felt a sudden emptiness, a jolt like a shock of electricity, and everyone on the planet sensed at that moment, without having to be told, that something had gone very wrong in the world.

Mary felt it. She jolted.

Santa felt it. He shuddered suddenly.

Mary lowered her head and then a sudden change came over her.

When Santa looked into that face again, it was if he was looking into a face that had suddenly been robbed of all its innocence.…

It was as if her sixteen years of pent-up carnal lust had been suddenly unleashed and she could not stop it.

She gazed back at Santa now, her eyes narrowed like razors and Santa felt a twinge of fear.

She went to the door and opened it and beckoned him inside. Santa noticed that she was dressed in just a bra and nothing else. He could clearly see her vertical smile between her thighs. He felt himself growing hard despite himself.

Then, despite himself, he was walking through the door! What was this power this girl had over him?!!

He stood in a daze, lowered his sack of toys to the floor, then turned around and eyed her nubile, half-naked body. Mary closed the door, then clasped her hands behind her and looked up at him in mock innocence.

She met his gaze, her eyes locking onto his, then he was looking into those big violet eyes, those blinking long, long lashes.

Then she slid her hand dowwwwwwn on her body, over her stomach, to between her legs and with two fingers, spread herself and while she did it, it was as if the smoldering ember in her pussy burst into sudden flame, as her pussy became fluorescent red. And if you ever saw it, you would even say it glows.

In a lusty voice, she said to him, “Santa, why don’t you kiss me underneath the camel toe?”

He stared at her cunny, and the gold ring dangling from it, studying her femaleness, longing for it, longing to touch it, to caress it, to taste it.…

And as he stared intensely at the gap between her thighs, he sang this song:

I’m dreaming of cunnilingus,

Just like the kind I used to know,

Where clit rings glisten,

And girls are wishin’

For me to slide in driven snow.

She swayed as he sang, then kneeled in front of him and began unbuttoning his pants—she was breathing deeply in her excitement and so was Santa as he looked down at her.

Underneath his pants, he was hard and throbbing … she pulled the pants all the way down, then the boxer shorts underneath.

Her eyes went wide with wonder. “Oooohhhhh,” and she wrapped her hand around his stiff man-meat and it twitched in her hand, and Santa caught his breath.

Santa didn’t know why he was letting this girl do this, it was as if he had lost all control and then the girl was tenderly kissing it, then licking it. It was quivering. “I’m a bad girl,” she whispered. “Such a bad girl.”

She circled her lips around it, and she brought her hand up to aid her mouth, moving back and forth and sucking with her mouth and for a moment, the only sound was the sound of her slurping.

Santa gave himself up to the pleasure for a moment, closing his eyes and leaning his head back.

But then he suddenly jolted into sudden awareness, and he screamed out in a mixture of horror and pleasure, “What a ho, ho, ho!” Then he flinched away, yanking his penis from her suckling mouth and she was left with her mouth in the shape of an “O.”

Her jaw closed and she scowled, giving Santa a disapproving look. “I want you inside of me!” she shouted angrily, and she lay back on the ground and spread her legs, waiting.

Santa panicked, terrified of the lust that was taking over him. He thought of Mrs. Claus at home. He didn’t want to betray his wife. The girl was between him and the front door.

The girl suddenly changed into a madwoman.

“Fuck me, now!” she screamed.

Santa looked at her, and said, “I— I— can’t.”

Mary howled in a piercing, long tone, “AWOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!”

She rolled backwards from her position, into a crouch, then did a back flip and stood in front of the front door.

Santa backed away, as she eyed his crotch hungrily—his penis was still hard, throbbing now. He thought that maybe if he ran fast enough he might be able to make it out of the house through another door.…

She met his eyes, then crouched, lowered her hands onto the ground, then transferred her weight to balance on them, spreading her legs behind them, holding herself over the ground. The lips of her pussy opened and glistened with her excitement—it was like some kind of flower—a girl-flower—that was coming into bloom—he could even see inside the hole.

Santa stood mesmerized, stunned for a moment.

She was rocking gently back and forth, almost as if she was trying to hypnotize him, a wicked grin on her face. He stared.…

Then she suddenly rolled forward and flung herself up from the floor and was propelling through the air, yelling “SKREEEEEEEEE!!!!!” with her legs spread wide and her crotch heading straight for his neck.

Then her cooch slammed into his neck and her legs locked together, choking him. He stumbled back and flailed around madly, panicking as she tried to pull him down, and as she was trying to pull him down, she had wrapped her lips again around his penis and was sucking him off.

Then he was stumbling backward while pulling at her legs. He tripped against something and fell backward and somehow managed to slip the girl off of him as he fell to the ground. He realized that he was in the living room of the house and he had fallen against the Christmas tree.

The girl fell face down, but she somehow managed to twist as she fell, and went into the full splits on the floor, with her back to him. She whipped her head back to glare at him with devil-eyes, then stared at his stiff man-meat.

Santa looked desperately around him. There was a sliding glass door behind him that opened into the backyard. If he could make it there, he might be able to escape this psycho girl.

Then the girl smoothly glided up from her split into a standing position, and as Santa stood and turned to face the glass door she did a massive triple backward somersault in the air and landed in front of him.

She lowered her head and glared intensely into his eyes. She wouldn’t stop until she got what she wanted.

She was backing up, as if she was going to take a running start and lunge at him again, but she misjudged the distance behind her and backed into the glass door, and it was that distraction that saved him. Quickly, Santa backed up and picked up the Christmas tree by its trunk. It was a medium-size tree, heavy, but manageable—the adrenalin coursing through his veins gave him extra strength. He poked it into the girl’s chest between her breasts, the angel ornament on top of the tree fell to the ground, and the girl was knocked back.

He backed away, while still carrying the tree, into the short hallway leading to the front door. The girl didn’t recover until he was fumbling at the door knob.

He felt the blessed feeling of the cold air against the back of his neck as he got the door open, while still holding the tree in his shaking arm—he was keeping the girl at a distance as she watched his every move and glared at him.

He backed out into the crunchy snow, making his way to the sleigh as the girl stepped out through the door.

She undid her bra and showed him her breasts.

It was a distraction, and it worked. He was mesmerized for a moment, he lowered the tree in a daze, and almost dropped it.

Then she sprang into action. She ran and shouted a battle cry—”AHHHoaoWWooOOoOo!!!!” and she propelled herself into the air, spreading her legs wide, flying spread-eagled through the air, with the pinpoint precision only a gymnast cheerleader could accomplish … her girl-hole was flying directly toward his half-erect penis.…

… and in reflex, he raised the Christmas tree in front of himself to protect himself.…

… and she slammed into it—the tip of the tree hit her pussy, sliding inside of her, and the impact caused the tree to lift in Santa’s grasp, rising upward like some sort of pussy pole vault in a perverted olympics.

The tree stood upright, the weight of the tree dropped from Santa’s hands, drove into the snow and the ground, and planted itself there. Her clit ring had been torn free upon impact, and flung into the air, flipping upward end over end … then plopped right onto the top of her head.

And Mary became in that moment, a glorious, spread-eagled angel, balancing by her pussy atop the Christmas tree and as the cold air hit her bare breasts, her pink nipples stiffened, reaching out into the cold air.…

And then she suddenly started shuddering, with her arms and legs quivering, she was hissing out breaths of steam, she was going, “Mmmm, oh, oh, oh!” She rolled her head, she cried out and bit her lip, then she was shouting, “Oh, god. Oh GOD, oh GOD!!!”

And all across the world, as if compelled by some instinct of female sisterhood—to the horror of fathers and family—virgin girls were climbing to the top of Christmas trees, slipping them inside themselves and balancing there.

Chapter 16

Tyria

No woman is perfect. I am. My legs impossibly long, my arms achingly lean. Delectable small breasts with the face of an angel. I don’t bleed like women do. I don’t pee. Fuck me all you want, I hold no diseases in my cunt. I am better than any woman could ever hope to be. Men want me. Women want me, and want to be me, but they can never be. I am beyond the bounds of nature and they can never hope to attain what I have. I was made for you, all of you, to adore, to despise. Made just for you.

I am Tyria, a supermodel.

She looks at me with those eyes, every time. She doesn’t look at the others the same way—as she glances, she holds it too long. It awakens a longing. My eyes flash quickly over hers—brown eyes glimmering under the subdued light. And I’m holding it too long and I have to look away. For some reason, I’ve always found it easy to talk to Jayla. I tell her things I’ve never told anyone—nothing major, but still more. I think she only feels sorry for me. She finishes powdering my face, and I’m off.

As I step out, the cameras flash on me like little bombs. And I know that she is back there, perhaps thinking of me, but probably not.

I walk confidently, gliding forward on the runway, the expression on my face firm.

I hate all these people. I despise them. I despise them for adoring me so much, I despise them for hating me so much. For creating me. This.

This that the women and little girls of the world all want to be. This that the women and little girls of the world can never be. I make the part of them that they hate. And the bulimia to puke it out of them, the laxatives to shit it out of them, the diuretics to wash it out of them. I make that too.

Someone calls my name. I turn and see the man running towards me from backstage, holding a bucket in his hands.

There is no time to move.

He stops in front of me.

I watch his arms push the bucket upwards through the air, watch the mass of red flying out from it. I cringe and it hits me—a cold, thick splash against my skin. For a moment, I stand frozen, then slowly, I look down at myself. The white dress is soaked with clinging red, the contrast angry and bright against my eyes.

I see the wetness forming to the shape of my breast, clinging to the delicate circle of my nipple, and I know that thousands of men will caress themselves over it.

He’s looking at me with hate-filled eyes, yelling the slogan for RUBI: “Reject unnatural body images!” And meanwhile, the cameras are alive—fervent flashes of light recording it all. Entertainment. He shouts again: “Defy robot infestation!”

I stand silent, watching as the security guards close in on him.

The urge moves me. I lick my lips, then slowly glide my hand up against me and caress the softness of my breast. It quiets him as they pull him away.

Someone takes my arm and begins to lead me backstage. It’s Kristi.

I’m trembling as she guides me. Her grip is rough. She hates me, just like all the other models do. The dressing room is hectic like it always is, but it all suddenly seems strange to me. I wipe my hands against my legs and sit. No one seems to notice as I begin to sob, my face in my hands.

Someone taps me on the shoulder. I have to change again. I get up and they attend to me. They cut the dripping clothes from my body and one of the ladies starts sopping me down with a wet towel, her touch rough, the water cold against my skin. She dries me and they dress me again.

And now Jayla is here again, retouching my makeup. Our eyes flash for a moment. She seems to want to speak, but she doesn’t. There’s no time. She dabs at the tears and I realize I’ve stopped crying. Quickly, she finishes my makeup and I’m off again.

And this time, they applaud when I walk out. And it’s almost like they love me. But they don’t. Nobody does.

Again the runway, again the hungry eyes, again the bombardment of lights.

The show goes on.

Afterwards, at Heresy, I sit alone in the dark, watching. The music thumps so hard—it feels like it’s going to swallow me—the lights flashing out of the dark remind me of photo flashes.

Kristi’s here. She comes at me from across the room. She’s drunk, or on something—or on many things. Her eyes go big then small, and she’s yelling at me. I’m on my way out, she tells me. Her words are sloppy, slurred, hard to make out over the music. There’s a model that’s better than me, she tells me—another robot. Her name is Lonneke and she’s going to replace me. She yells something else—I can’t make it out, then she lunges for me, grabbing for my hair, but she doesn’t even come close. I laugh as two of the other models take her by her arms and lead her away.

But inside, I’m afraid, and I hope it’s a lie.

And I’m still remembering what happened at the runway. I feel so afraid and so alone. I wish Jayla was here. I wish I could talk to her in the way I do. I wish I could talk to her in a way that’s more. But why do I keep thinking about her? I hardly even know her.

The thoughts hurt too much.

I walk to the bathroom.

Strange thing about my brain—it’s not human. Technically, it’s not, but it’s patterned after the human. Easier to emulate than to create they say. I am a composite of many people’s personalities, chosen for my purpose, thrown together and given life a year and three months ago. I am a marvel of science—not human, but with human emotions and human thoughts—transmitters and neurons and receptors in my brain mimicking the natural. And what all of that means right now, is … that drugs work. Though I have to inject, though it means two more hours cleaning my blood, I can do it. And I really need this now.

Through the crack in the stall, I see one of the models pass, go to the stall next to me.

I hear the trickle of water on water. A beautiful girl with beautiful pee.

And as the stream flows out of her, I press the needle into me and inject a stream of Purple Lotus. A few moments pass—still the gentle trickle. Inside, the warmth begins to fill me. I hear the change of sound as her stream begins to falter, then comes to a stop. The toilet flushes and she passes again through my view. And everything’s shifting, everything’s moving so slow. I look into my own unstained water. I flush the toilet.

I come out of the bathroom. And I’m yelling. It feels strange—as if it’s not coming from me, but from a part deep inside. Anger. Deep and red. I’m mad at everybody—and at the models for hating me—for not loving me. And I’m scanning the bodies, the bodies that writhe like a pit of serpents, searching for Kristi, but I can’t find her.

The world shifts and fades and shimmers, and suddenly I’m back at the hotel room. I don’t remember how I got here.

I’m sobbing. I feel so alone. I search through the phone file looking for someone—anyone—to call. I have no one—no family, no friends, no lovers—no one. There’s only one name that feels right. I know I shouldn’t, but I’m not strong enough to stop.

I tell it to call Jayla.

The longest moment passes—dreadful, alone, desperate—then she picks up. Her face on the screen looks sleepy, adorable. I stare at her on the screen, straining to focus. “Hello Jayla,” I say, my voice breaking.

She pauses, watching me. Her eyes are so soft—I can feel them touching me through the screen. “Hello, Tyria,” she says and smiles—a soft, comforting smile.

And she doesn’t go away like I expected her to. She’s listening. And I’m telling her how much I hate it—all the contempt and admiration people have for me—I’m always either above them or below them, but I’m never one of them. I’m tired of all the feelings and all the emptiness. I’m tired of everything. I wish I could just leave it all behind. She looks at me, taking me in with her eyes. “Then why don’t you?” she asks and her words linger in my mind. We switch to audio—and I lie curled up on the couch, sobbing into the phone—and the hours go by and still she’s listening. And somehow now, we’re just talking and I’m laughing. Her voice is soothing me.

I feel the sleepiness begin to overtake me and I know that I will fall asleep on the line.

The last thing I remember hearing is her voice getting sleepy too.

The next day.

And I can’t stop the conversation from playing over and over in my head.

He tells me to sit in the corner. I walk over to it, my long limbs gliding gracefully through the air. Black panties, black sheer top. He watches me move. His eyes are hungry. I feel resentful and needy at the same time—a tingly fire in my stomach. As I support myself in the corner, he walks over to me, eyeing me, guiding my limbs and I’m tingling. Knees together, left arm across the knees, other arm to the side, look into the camera. That’s it. That’s it. I do whatever he tells me. He controls me. He controls the way I appear, the way I … am. And I want so much to be special to him, but as he walks back to the camera and fixes its mechanical eye on me, the hunger disappears and now I’m just an object. Adjust the lighting, adjust my hair, adjust my position. Just an object. Like a plastic mannequin in a store window. The camera flashes over and over against me. And all the while, I’m thinking of Jayla. The time passes slowly, like a dream that never ends, then suddenly … does.

And he tells me he wants to feel my long legs wrapped around him, so I oblige him, because he wants me. I hate myself for being this way. As he pushes himself inside of me, I’m still thinking of her. I’m wondering what it would be like with her and I’m wondering what it would be like just to hold her hand—it must be so different from this, and though this is all I’ve known, somehow it doesn’t seem right—somehow, there’s a part of me that longs for something I’ve never known. I long for love. But I don’t know how. Maybe I can’t. Maybe I shouldn’t even try. He grunts into me and moans and then pants and he’s done.

He vacantly watches me get up and walk away … and I’m sick of all of it.

As I watch my long legs step into the panties, I feel the warm cum oozing out of me, trickling down my thighs.

After the shoot, on my way back to the hotel, I have to get the latest issue of Elle. There’s a story about Lonneke in it.

I’m at a convenience store, scanning the magazine rack, looking for it. It’s hard to miss. She stands on the cover, hands to her side, glaring at me, a challenge. The cover says, “The Latest Model.”

I pick up the magazine, walk around the store, pick up hairspray, a box of macaroni and cheese, a pack of chocolate cupcakes, because I don’t want the magazine to be all I buy and because buying food makes me feel more human.

I stand behind an anonymous young girl and her mother at the counter. They’re talking. As the girl turns her head to look at me, she reflexively looks up at my height. She must be twelve or thirteen—a cute girl … but hardly perfect. She turns back and her long brown hair sways back into place. And I’m wondering what she will do to try to look like me. She holds a large cup of soda in her hand, sipping from the straw, her other hand loose at her side—she’s too old to hold her mother’s hand. As I watch her, I suddenly realize how alone I feel.

I want so much to hug you, little girl.

The lady glances at me as they leave. Hazel eyes—slightly weary with crinkled edges I will never have. The eyes of a mother.

The girl behind the counter squints at the price on the magazine, uninterested in me. Her head nudges upward into a glance, and then there’s a flash in her eyes. She recognizes my face—my face, a composite of gorgeous features, computer-modeled—and suddenly she’s no longer the checkout girl, she’s another Woman. I see her features change. She doesn’t want to touch the things I’ve bought. She glances down at the cover, then at me, and sneers.

I don’t open it until I’m back at the hotel.

My hands are trembling as I flip through the pages. She is so long—she looks unearthly, fragile—threatening always to topple and shatter. A spectacular creation—ribs poking out through porcelain skin, bowed shoulders, fragile face, eyes green and large. She is so beautiful. In the pictures, she’s naked, in brilliant white light, delicate parts covered or teasingly angled out of reach of the camera—the first picture shows her in The Birth of Venus pose, standing on a seashell—the motif of the pictures is birth, gloriousness … perfection.

She is so beautiful.

My sigh sounds defeated, hopeless.

My eyes scrape against the first line: Move over Miss Perfect. I try to read through, but I can’t hold the words and the pages have gone shimmery through my tears. My eyes tumble and bounce along the pages, the feeling of dread tight around my throat.

The author goes through an overview of the fashion industry, discussing the push towards thinner and thinner. She moves on to cover me, the first android supermodel, setting the stage for what was to come. There’s a description of Lonneke—she is long and elegant, extravagantly, inordinately so—then a section of people’s thoughts about her. I don’t want to read. My hands are shaking too much now and I feel sick to my stomach. I skip to the end.

Does the practice infringe upon the rights of the models themselves? It is currently illegal to impose this sort of alteration upon unborn children. Perhaps it should be outlawed for the androids as well. After all, they are legally human beings upon animation: are they not entitled to the same rights at their creation? There are many who feel so.

Their bodies are admittedly distortions of the natural. Is this distortion a lifelong sentence? How does it feel to be so different, to be so “perfect”? Or is it true, as some claim, that they don’t feel at all?

Yes I feel. Yes I fucking feel.

There are too many tears. I can’t read anymore. I’m shaking.

I stand up and suddenly I’m screaming, smashing, throwing, kicking, the rage filling me, tears flowing down my face. I break in all the mirrors, flip the dining table, smash a chair into the coffee table the magazine is sitting on. It rips at her face, her shoulder, but the table doesn’t break.

It’s no use.

I collapse into the couch, curling up into a ball, listening to the sound of my sobs. Is there anything I can do? There is nothing—she is more perfect than me. And she is so beautiful. What happened on the runway will bring temporary publicity, but it won’t last forever.

I know that, eventually, she will win.

And I will be second-best.

I will be nothing.

I want so much to call Jayla, to hear her voice again, but I … can’t.

I crane my head, my eyes wet with tears. Outside, through the window, the night is dark and harsh, the stars look like tears.

I think that I’ll quit. Quit it all. I can’t win. I’ll quit and I’ll hide. I’ll live off the money I’ve made. I’ll sever all my contracts. They’d probably be happy to be rid of me.

She applies the color with a tiny brush, the bristles tickly against my lips. I find myself looking at her without realizing, watching how the concentration shapes her mouth. She tries to talk to me, but I don’t respond. I can’t. I move my eyes away.

It was silly to even think I might have a chance at love. I only annoy her. She only feels sorry for me. Or she is toying with me. Why would she want me, anyway? I’m nothing but a robot, and besides, I don’t deserve love. I’ll stop bothering her.

She’s still looking at me with those eyes—those beautiful brown eyes, eyes that I thought were searching for something deep inside of me, but I realize now that it was just my imagination—it has been all along. I stand up.

The gray crushed velvet skirt caresses me as I walk, so soft. It soothes me somewhat. But I’m still trembling. I still remember last time.

But with each step, as I grow closer and closer to the stage, I feel the confidence growing inside of me. And I step out into all of their eyes and the certainty washes over me like the wall of light from the cameras. And I know now what I will do.

I will go on. I will persist. And I will be second-best, and it will be okay.

In the dressing room, after I make my pass, she comes to retouch my makeup and I smile at her. She smiles back, shyly. As she works, she’s giving me that look again, but longer now. Her eyes are so beautiful.

The show passes like a dream, then ends. Just another show.

Afterwards, she’s waiting for me, timid. We walk outside, then stand in silence and watch the fountain. I can feel the mist drifting off the surging strands of water, sliding against my skin. I hear a group of giggling beauties pass by, unseen, the clapping of car doors—off to another party. Insecure young girls desperately seeking approval, self-worth, specialness—that kind of love that is accepting and warm. I timidly reach out and take her hand.

Her head turns toward me, brown eyes searching for mine and I meet them. The feeling it brings is gentle and warm.

I look into the water and see my rippling face reflecting back to me. A face with delicate features, glimmering with the light of the moon. There is beauty there … and sadness. It’s the face of someone who seems strange to me.

I look into her eyes.

Chapter 17

Lyrics to Bad Boi Pretty’s “Bush Fire”

coming with a torch, ouhhhh make the bush fire bigger!

oh sweet sister, make it bigger, make it bigger!

oh sweet sister, shoulda listened to what your mama said!

now i’m smearing you with butter like a piece of wheat bread!

oh sweet sister, i’m the guy your mama warned you about!

i say ooohhh nah nah nah nah

ooh-ooh! make the bush fire burn, i say euhhh, oh sweet sister

oohooh! bang and now it burns!

like a bonfire stacked 80 feet tall,

i build you up to make you fall!

gotta make that bush fire grow,

grow and grow till you can’t take it no mo’!

i say ooohhh nah nah nah nah

ooh-ooh! make the bush fire burn! i say euhhh, oh sweet sister

oohooh! bang and now it burns!

burn burn, i wanna watch you burn

i wanna watch you squirm.…

Chapter 18

Plants

It had all started as an intellectual exercise, just to see if he could actually pull it off. He’d meticulously mixed plant and animal cells to make the plants produce androstenol, adrostenone, phenylethylamine and oxytocin; he’d painstakingly modified the plants’ structures and the functions of those structures.… He’d spent seven years tinkering. Not that he had anything better to do. It was the kind of shit that had made Gloria leave. He left work … to do more work. What else was there to do? It was all that mattered; it helped him forget.

Work was all that mattered. Charles Stromby had given up on people a long time ago. He was too strange—people didn’t understand him and he felt uncomfortable around them, and besides, they took too much of his time, and … he was fucking lonely. But forget about the loneliness—bury yourself in your work, right?—make more loneliness. And now the work he had made for himself for the past seven years was almost complete and Charles Stromby was starting to feel very lost. He didn’t know what he would do … afterwards.

It was all pointless, really. He had never had any intention of actually releasing the plants into the public. He’d perfected them as much as he could without actually testing them, but as one last experiment, he wanted to see how long one of them would last in the backyard. Really though, he was stalling, and he knew this, but when the time came, he would do what was right and destroy them. He was kind of nervous about putting one of them out in the open, but only a little bit. He was sure nobody knew what he was up to and the fence would keep any animals or people out.

They had put the fence up for the kids, but they had long since grown, and besides, they weren’t even around anymore—Peter was living with Gloria, Sarah had gone off to college. Funny that the plant seemed more like his child than his real ones. There hadn’t even been another man, and there still wasn’t; Gloria had left him … for no one.

He had never really liked that fence before now.

Recombinant-DNA formation, or gene splicing—altering the basic genetic substance of cells. Recent developments have dramatically expanded the capabilities and power of genetic engineering.

Using its techniques, it’s possible to transfer characteristics from animal to animal, from animal to plant, or even to make something entirely new.…

Genetic engineering makes tomatoes stay plump, oil slicks decompose, sickness go away.…

Better living through genetic engineering.…

Katie was seven years old.

Still a kid.

But still, more grown-up than at six.

She was disappointed in herself.

She told herself: “I’m disappointed in you, Katie,” just like Mommy said. “You should have known better,” she told herself.

She squinted her eyes against the sun, bringing her hand up as a shield. There was Mr. Stromby’s house. His name sounds like stromboli, she thought and giggled.

Mr. Stromby had a nice house. It had lots of big windows in the front. Katie liked that. Not like their house, where there were windows, but they were smaller. Mr. Stromby’s house also had a fence, which their house didn’t. Katie didn’t like fences. They made it so you couldn’t see things.

She felt like looking around a little before going on to her best friend Bridget’s house. She stopped in front of Mr. Stromby’s mailbox.

She had talked to Mr. Stromby before, once. He had been checking the mail. He wore glasses and seemed kind of shy. Not like Katie. Katie wasn’t shy at all.

She had asked him what he did, and he had said he was a genetic engineer. She could hear it in her head, but she couldn’t say it. She tried: “genetic enzneer … genetic enzeer.” It was too hard. It was just a fancy way of saying he made new kinds of plants. It was definitely a more neat job than Daddy’s … but she loved Daddy more. She didn’t even really know Mr. Stromby. But he seemed nice.

The mailbox post felt really rough and dry on her hands … dirty too—icky. She wiped her hand on her jeans, stopped. Her eyes shifted to the wooden fence.… All of a sudden she really wanted to look into Mr. Stromby’s backyard. She didn’t know why she did things sometimes. She was still a kid.

She hesitated only a moment, then walked up to the fence, pressed her face up to one of the slots, and peered inside.

Mr. Stromby really needed to mow his lawn, she thought, observing how messy the long grass looked. He was a really bad boy, she thought, giggling. She shifted her position a little. Mr. Stromby had a concrete part outside his sliding-glass door just like Katie did.

She was scrunching up her face trying to see. She turned her head and squinted her eyes.

Then she saw it, sitting in the ground on the far edge of the concrete. It was a very beautiful plant with beautiful pink flowers. White knobs poked out from inside the fluffy petals of each flower, like the rounded tips of white popsicles, she thought, but shorter. It looked like a popsicle plant, she thought, giggling. She ran her eyes over it, taking in all the shapes, the graceful curves, the colors. It was so beautiful. Just looking at it made her feel warm inside—like a good hug.

It would be a perfect way to say “I’m sorry” to Mary.

She had to get a flower to give to her.

Her hand went to her chin and she thought some.

Would it be bad to take a flower—only one?

It was a little bit naughty, she decided … but Mary had been so angry and she was only going to take one itty bitty flower. Mr. Stromby probably didn’t even know it was there. Maybe he thought it was a weed. Daddy hated weeds—once he had even been so mad at them that Katie had heard him cuss.

It was a little naughty, but not a lot—and it would make Mary happy, so it would be for a good cause.

She decided she would do it.

She started for the door, stopped, and thought some more. Nodded. Yes, she was sure.

Unfortunately, the door was locked.

Now Mommy said she always went for what she wanted and that was true.

She put her hands on her hips, and squinted her eyes and scrunched up her mouth at the door.

She didn’t have to think long to know what to do.

She always went for what she wanted, especially if you told her she couldn’t.

She went to fetch her wagon.

Flowers serve as the means by which many plants reproduce. They are, in that sense—though it may sound funny to say—the plants’ reproductive organs. And various animals such as bees, birds, and bats serve—in a sense—as their indirect impregnators, unknowingly spreading pollen as they travel from flower to flower. But really, they couldn’t care less about doing so. So the plants generally provide food as incentive—the most common forms being nectar and the pollen itself. Many plants also mimic insect pheromones with their scents in order to draw the insects in, and a few plants even use outright seduction, flaunting structures that mimic the female of certain wasp and bee species. Pollen adheres to the male as he tries (unsuccessfully) to copulate.

But it isn’t just insects falling for the seductive wiles of plants. Bats and rodents as well are attracted by certain flowers which mimic their pheromones.… And, though the number is small, there are even a few flowers erogenic to man.

Katie pulled her wagon through the thick grass, its moist smell wafting up as it swished against her leg.

She stood at the base of the fence and looked up.

It was kind of high, but not really high.

All she needed was something to stand on. That’s why she had brought her wagon.

She moved it into a good position, then tentatively placed a foot on it. Yeah, it looked like it would stay in place.

She stood on it and quickly placed her hands on the top of the fence.

Her heart was beating hard. She put her hand to her chest to feel. Thump Thump Thump. She hoped it wasn’t going to break.

Her hand went back to the fence.

“Now I’m going to pull myself up,” she said.

And with that, she jumped and pulled and caught her feet on the fence. She edged up some with her feet, rested a little while, then quickly hooked one leg over, used that to pull herself to the top. Then she perched there, taking a few moments to gather her breath and be proud. Her heart sped up a little then slowed as she looked down. She smiled.

She felt like jumping, so after swinging her other leg over, she launched herself off the top.

Her feet made a satisfying thud as she jolted into the ground. Her knees were a little wobbly, so she waited for them to go normal. She took the moment to feel proud again.

Then, cautiously, she made her way to the plant … stood over it, looked down. It was so beautiful. She wished she could be so beautiful.

She squatted down and peered at it.

It smelled fantastic. She smiled. “Fantastic” sounded funny—not the right word. It smelled more than fantastic.

She closed her eyes, and in her head, everything was going light and tingly. It felt like … mushed potatoes and rainbows. She opened her eyes, smiling.

Then slowly—timidly—she reached to touch a flower … caressed it.

It was so soft.

As delicately as she could, she pinched a stem between her thumb and finger, then brought her scissors out and snipped it. She touched the flower to her nose. Inhaled. And suddenly, her head was warm and tingly.

She opened her eyes.

It was so beautiful. It would be perfect for Mary.

She walked to the door, unlatched it, and headed home.

Pheromones can be thought of as chemical messengers, transmitted by means of taste or smell between members of a species. In the sexual realm, they serve as aphrodisiacs and attractants—causing behavioral reactions in members of the opposite sex that facilitate mating. Their effects, in many lower animals, can be quite profound. Humans, as well, produce sexual pheromones—androstenol, androstenone, aliphaticacids.… They are remnants of our animal past, accumulating under our arms and between our legs. Fortunately, though, humans are not slaves to pheromones. Pheromones influence us, but they do not control us.

Mary was in the living room, watching TV.

Katie took a deep breath and spoke to the back of her head with its violet-colored hair. “Mary?”

Mary didn’t respond. She must have still been mad.

“Mary?” she tried again.

“What do you want?” Her voice was definitely an angry voice. But this time Katie thought maybe she deserved it.

“I’m sorry I threw ice cream at you.”

“So?” She still hadn’t turned around.

“So I’m really really sorry and I’ll never do it again.”

Mary was silent again.

“I really am sorry. And I’m sorry I bugged you about taking me to the mall. I realize now that what I did was wrong.”

Mary huffed in amusement at that. Grown-ups did that a lot. Not that Mary was really a grown-up. She was only 17.

“And I’m also sorry about what I said about Andy.”

“You didn’t say anything about Andy. All you said was that you thought I was spending too much time with him.” She was speaking, finally, but only to correct her.

“Well, I’m sorry I said that.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re sorry. Whatever. You just have to realize that the whole world doesn’t revolve around you. And you have to stop bugging me. The more you bug me, the less I want to take you anywhere.”

Katie could feel herself getting angry, but she tried to control it. After all, all she had wanted was for Mary to take her to the mall. Mary had done it before, so why couldn’t she then? If she didn’t bug Mary, she would never do it. But she was apologizing, she reminded herself.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Whatever.”

“I brought you a gift as a token of retribution.”

“Token of retribution?” She was finally turning around. “Jeez, where do you come up with this stuff?”

Katie was there, flower in hand.

Mary’s face instantly went soft. “Awwwww … it’s lovely.” She took it from Katie’s hand, her face warm and daydreamy—the way she looked when she talked about Andy.

Then she snapped out of it. “But where did you get this? You didn’t steal this from somebody’s yard, did you?”

Katie looked into her stepsister’s violet eyes. “I got it from Bridget’s garden.”

Her suspicion faded. “Oh, really? I didn’t know they had a garden.”

“Yup,” Katie said and nodded.

Mary went back to admiring the flower.

“Smell it,” Katie told her.

Mary did.

“Wow!” she exclaimed, her face lighting up, smiling, dimples showing. And then she was blushing.

“Do you like it?” Katie asked her stepsister.

“I love it.”

Phenylethylamine or PEA. It’s called the “molecule of love.” Posited to play a role in love, or, more accurately, the infatuation stage of love, increased levels are associated with romantic attraction and its bodily sensations: elevated blood pressure, flushed skin, sweating, heavy breathing … feelings of elation, exhilaration, euphoria.

The effects are very much like those from taking a stimulant drug, and indeed, its chemical structure is very similar to amphetamine. It’s a drug released by the body itself.

The sensations it brings are nature’s reward for appropriate behavior—behavior that brings the two genders together for the sake of reproduction.

They say love is the best drug.…

So beautiful.

Mary’s eyes glided gently over it, slowly caressing each sinuous curve, each delicate shape, so beautiful, graceful … sensual. She took in its scent, inhaled until no more air would come, tasting the smell. It filled her. So sweet.

And her mind felt tingly, warm.

And the flowers like eyes, they almost seemed alive, to understand, to care.

And the leaves like hands, so soft—she drew them lightly over her arm, caressing her, comforting her, so gentle. Her skin tingled at the touch, growing warm, the delicate hairs on her arm standing on end. She felt like she was floating. She closed her eyes, felt her nipples swelling into the softness of her shirt, felt the skin of her face stretching into a smile. Then she opened her eyes, taking it all in again, felt the tears well up and roll, cross her lips, salty and sweet.

So beautiful.

Once the tumultuous initial stage of infatuation has subsided, feelings of comfort and warmth become more prominent than feelings of excitement and passion—this is the second stage of romantic love: attachment.

And it is at this stage that a hormone called oxytocin, the “love hormone,” starts coming prominently into play. Oxytocin is present in both men and women, but in women, it plays a particular role in motherhood. Oxytocin causes uterine contractions during labor. Later, as she interacts with her child, its levels rise in the mother’s blood, especially during breast-feeding. The oxytocin induces a state of gentleness in the mother and arouses an urge to cuddle, helping to cement the bond between mother and child.

But these effects aren’t just limited to mother and child. A touch with a friend will also cause oxytocin to rise. A lover’s touch will cause it to rise dramatically; even thinking about them will bring about a dramatic rise.

And so we see that oxytocin underlies many of our most fundamental social relationships.

Thomas Keniston came home from work and poured himself a bourbon with ice. It had been rough firing Larry, but alcoholics did not make good managers. It was really too bad. Four years with the company gone, because of … this, he thought, staring into the murky depths of the tumbler.

He replaced the bottle and made sure to lock the liquor cabinet. Mary was at that age now.

He drew in a sip, held it on his tongue, let it tingle, then slid it down, savoring the cold warmth down the inside of his throat.…

Mary.

There was another problem.

He had been trying to figure out what had happened, but as far as he knew, everything had been fine. Was there something she wasn’t telling him? Now she seemed to spend all of her time taking care of that damn plant. He had been hoping the damn thing would die, but apparently, it had managed to take root and thrive. He shook his head. He usually didn’t have to remind Mary to do her chores; now she was being neglectful, walking around like she was in some kind of daze. Was she upset that he and Margaret weren’t spending enough time with her? But somehow it didn’t seem like that to him. He felt a sudden twinge of fear. What if she knew about him and Janet? But—he shook his head—how would she know? Margaret was the one they had to be careful of.

Mary had always seemed well-adjusted before, a cheerleader, a mostly-A student, popular, with a good boyfriend (or so it had seemed).

What had happened? What?

Was she on drugs? Pregnant? Had she been raped? So help him, if that Andy had done anything to her, he would kill the little bastard.…

He had tried to discuss it with Margaret, but it was so difficult to reach her and they had grown so distant lately.

He finished off the rest of the bourbon and spun the ice around the bottom of the glass, watching it turn into a blurred brown circle, then let it wind down, clink to a stop.

Well, he was tired of thinking. If things with Mary didn’t improve soon, he would call a therapist.

He smiled at the funny voices coming from the living room. Katie was watching cartoons.

At least nothing had happened with Katie yet.

He wished she could stay his little girl forever.

“Hi Katie,” he said as he entered the living room.

“Hi Daddy,” she replied absently without taking her eyes off the screen.

He started up the stairs to change clothes.

He noticed the noise as he neared the top. It was faint, he couldn’t quite make it out, but something about it sent a chill up his spine. He stopped and turned his head. It was moaning … sexual.…

Mary.

His heart leapt into his throat, and then the anger surged through him, filling him so much he shook.

If that little prick was fucking his daughter.…

He rushed to Mary’s door, wrenched the knob, pushed hard.…

And as the door boomed into the wall, on the floor was Mary—naked, on her knees, supporting herself with one arm. Her other hand gripped the plant just below the flower—the petals spreading with each thrust—moaning as she pressed it against her, as she pressed it … inside of her.

For a long, terrible moment, he stood in rigid silence, taking in the slow rhythm of her body up and down, listening to her gasping moans of pleasure. He couldn’t believe what he saw, couldn’t believe it was her, couldn’t stop his eyes roving her naked body … his little girl.

Then the rage flowed over him. “Mary!” he was yelling. His voice was thunderous, harsh. “What the hell are you doing!” For a moment, it seemed she hadn’t even heard. Then, slowly, her head began to turn towards him.

Everything was lost in a blur as the anger propelled him over to her. He had to make her stop, had to make her stop prodding herself, stop sticking that thing inside of her. And then he was standing over her, bringing his foot up, slamming it into her, watching her crash into the floor.

The pot tipped over, the plant still in her grasp.…

And she just lay there, her tongue running sensuously against her lips, her eyes closed. And then they were half open, focusing on nothing.

“Dad?”

He reached for the plant. All that was running through his mind was that he had to destroy it, had to pull it up and tear it apart. He pulled on it hard, wrenching it from her hand and out of the pot, spattering her body with blotches of brown clinging to the moistness of her body. And then he was tearing it apart.

And Mary was screaming, “My plant!”

And the little whore didn’t care that she was naked or that she had slutted herself or that he was her father or that she was only seventeen damn years old!

He hurled the pieces down onto her disgusting, naked body. She was sobbing now, taking in breaths of air spasmodically, shuddering, trying to bring herself under control.

“Put some goddamn clothes on!” he shouted, glaring at her.

As he turned to leave, Katie was in the doorway, looking up at him.

“What’s wrong with Mary?” she asked with frightened eyes.

Although female orgasm is not inextricably linked to reproduction (unlike male orgasm), it does serve a purpose. Muscular contractions during a woman’s orgasm create a suction force that draws sperm from the vagina to the cervix, increasing the likelihood of fertilization. In addition, female orgasm may also serve as a mechanism of bonding, encouraging females to stay with a particular mate.

As a woman approaches orgasm, various chemicals are being released inside of her. Phenylethylamine is rising in her blood and will spike during her orgasm; endorphins are also rising in her blood, as is oxytocin, which at orgasm, will cause contractions of the uterus and vagina. It all combines to make orgasm an extremely pleasurable—some might say addictive—experience.

Mary lay in her bed listening to the radio. She hated the song they were playing … that they kept playing. She was so tired she couldn’t move. She had slept most of the day. It had been like this for three days.

And all she could dream were dreams of her plant. And all she could think when she was awake were thoughts of her plant.

And how much she hated Dad for destroying it.

She hated parents. They were never there, and when they were, they wanted to control everything.

Margaret (her stepmom) and Dad didn’t even care. First of all, Margaret was oblivious, off working all the time. And Dad was ignoring her. She hadn’t been to school in the three days since he’d destroyed her plant. And she hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday.

He hadn’t even tried to understand. How could anyone who was supposed to love her destroy something that made her so happy?

The only one who cared was Katie. Maybe she cared a little too much. Mary had even had to lock the door to keep the little munchkin out. But a lot of help the little runt had been. She had told Katie to go and bring back another plant. Katie had left, then come back later, crying, saying they were gone.

Mary had gone to see for herself, had even talked to Bridget’s mom, but she hadn’t known what Mary was talking about. When she returned, Katie broke down. Eventually, Mary dragged it out of her that she had gotten the flower not from Bridget’s house, but from some guy’s house down the street, but when Mary had gone there, he hadn’t been home and the plant was gone. She had written him a note, had gone back a few times—the note was still there—had called his house constantly and left messages, had even called the university, where he was a professor, but it was the university’s spring break, and he had left … and no one knew where he was.

She didn’t know what else to do.

She was so tired.

She just wanted to sleep.

Woman is the mother. It is a part of her, it shapes her very soul. It has to be so, for infants require a great deal of care and attention and so Nature provides women with the necessary qualities. And so women tend to be more caring, sacrificial, and giving than men. And they show a greater capability for attachment feelings as well—they are set up for it, these feelings being of profound importance in the bond between mother and child.

These qualities are so much a part of her that they naturally carry over into matters of the heart.…

It was good that her step-daughter, Mary was doing better. Thomas had said she’d been depressed a few weeks ago, but that he hadn’t known why. Now, he said, she was back to her old self. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to spend that much time with Mary (or Katie, for that matter), but as soon as she got some time, she would sit down with Mary and have a long talk. She felt sad, knew that Mary must feel like she was being neglected. Maybe some day she would quit this job and get one where she could spend more time at home. Maybe … someday. She had thought it over a million times. She knew she was missing a lot of Mary’s young womanhood. Soon she would be off to college and.…

Well, she still had Katie.

Thomas came off of hold. “Sorry, honey, but I really have to go. Office crisis. So you’ll be home Saturday?”

“Uh huh.”

“Okay, see you then. Bye.”

“Bye, hon.…” The words felt strange in her mouth. She held the phone to her ear for a moment after he hung up.…

She didn’t know how much longer she could keep from having to face it.

Maybe it was nothing.…

… maybe it was partly her fault, always being away all the time, maybe she hadn’t done enough for the marriage, to make him feel wanted … or maybe Tom was a goddamn bastard. She sighed. There had been lipstick on his sleeve.…

Margaret Keniston hung up the phone and checked to see that all her bags were still there. She always felt paranoid about her things in the airport.

She relaxed. Nothing stolen.

She shifted her eyes to the cute little potted flower in the seat next to her.

Janet had given it to her at their lunch rendezvous a few hours ago.

It was a strange gift, a little cumbersome to be hauling around everywhere with her—she hadn’t had time to drop it off. Normally, she would have refused, and she and Janet were good enough friends for her to do so, but for some reason, she had taken an instant liking to it. She smirked. Janet had joked that it was better than men.… She lifted the pot with her hand, peering at the flower. Better than men? It was a very beautiful flower, she thought, twiddling with the little white knob in the middle of the fluffy, pink petals … very beautiful.

She brought the flower to her nose, then inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with its scent: it didn’t smell like any flower she had ever smelled before … but she liked it.

She wondered if they sold plant supplies anywhere in the airport.

Doubtful, she thought as she picked up her things, smiling.

For some reason, she couldn’t stop smiling.

We have encountered a previously unknown species of plant which we consider to be a significant threat to public safety. The species displays a capability previously unknown in plant species: it deposits spores in the vaginal tracts of human females. Approximately five days after the “impregnation” of the female, seedlings are “birthed” and may then be cultivated. The plant seems to have been specifically engineered to utilize various chemical agents tying into a female’s libidinal systems, encouraging pseudocopulatory acts and leading to subsequent chemical dependence.

The development of this species is extremely troubling. Recommendations are for immediate investigation and counteractive measures to neutralize this threat before it has a chance to spread. It has the potential for rapid and widespread infiltration of the populace. At present, the situation is believed to be small and containable, but is expected to worsen rapidly without appropriate action.

The origin of the plant has been linked to Dr. Charles Stromby, recently deceased due to probable suicide. His suicide note makes specific mention of what we believe to be the plant in question, but contains no helpful information beyond that. No records of his research or traces of any plants were found in preliminary searches of his home and office.

Permission is requested to begin a formal investigation and to trace the path of the plant’s spread.

Katie came in and plopped down in front of the TV as soon as Mary opened the door.

Mary set her backpack on the couch. She put her hands to her hips and looked down at Katie, lying on her tummy in front of the tube. “You want a drink, munchkin?”

“Lemonade,” she answered—an order—never moving her eyes from the screen. A slight smile crept up the side of her face.

There was amusement in Mary’s voice. “Ah, you little munchkin! Who are you to give me orders?”

“I’m Katie!” She pretended to continue watching the screen, but her eyes shifted slightly to the side, the smile on her face growing bigger.

Mary came back enthusiastically: “That’s right!” She paused to let that sink in, then tried not to sound too authoritative. “You aren’t gonna spill it, though, are you?”

Mary was already at the kitchen doorway by the time Katie answered back, her little girl voice funny-sounding with indignation: “Nooooo.”

She sighed happily. It felt so good to be home. She set her glass next to Katie’s plastic “Number One Kid” cup. Just then, the phone started to ring from the living room. She paused a moment, then opened the refrigerator door. Katie would get it … if it was anyone important. The phone rang two times, then three, then stopped just before the answering machine would have picked up. She took a sip of lemonade and went into the living room.

She set Katie’s cup next to her on the carpet. “Who was it?”

“Andy,” she mumbled, eyes glued to the screen, obviously too involved to be bothered.

Mary checked the caller ID. Andy. When was he going to give up? It had been nearly a week since she had broken up with him. Poor guy. She kind of felt sorry for him. But why did he have to keep calling? All she could do, she figured, was ignore him and let him get over her.

She finished off the glass and set it on the coffee table, then walked to the stairway. She gripped the side of her neck, easing away at the tension, feeling all the stresses of her life begin to fall away as she climbed the stairs. So good to be home.

She walked the short distance to her door, turned the knob, and went inside.

She brought her new plant out from the closet then set it on her desk and sat down.

She reached her hand out, then delicately, slowly, she drew her finger along one of the soft leaves, relaxing at the feel of it, her hand gently trembling. She let out a deep, whispering breath. It’s done, she thought. Every girl in her school now had a plant, even the unpopular ones. Even Katie had one.

And it was spreading to the middle school too, and to mothers … and everywhere.

It felt good, she thought, smiling tenderly at her new plant, to know that other women were feeling the same joy she was.

She went to lock the door.

BOOK III

The Return to Innocence

O, young one, do you now feel lust,

And ache for hands upon your bust?

And do you timidly await

Corruption, while you masturbate?

When teddy bears have love affairs,

Their fuzzy fur meets new-grown hairs—

With dainty limbs astride,

With childish eyes gone wide.

Now comes the cruel corruption,

Lust whispers sweet seduction.

You gaze into his eyes,

You’re pierced and purity dies!

And the rose’s dew now drips,

But so also do your tears!

For the newly-tainted rose

Brings on your childish fears!

Now the teddy bear is laid aside,

And your dainty legs are open wide.

The little girl is now a whore,

And lust consumes you more and more.

Now trampled roses, crushed by might,

Begin to grow in newfound light.

Proud violets, once hid, now all can see,

And no longer sway beneath others’ pee.

And now you cum to realize,

The untouched rose was spouting lies!

You realize now with childlike wonder,

That flowers are made to sow and plunder!

CHAPTER 19

Touching Souls

He didn’t just look at her, he ravaged her soul, and tore her apart

with his eyes.

The anonymous brown-haired girl trembled when he allowed her to kneel

and kiss his hands.

He entered her soul through the entrance

in her eyes.

“May I call you sweety?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Hello, sweety.”

“May I call you darling?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Hello, darling.”

“And what do I call you?”

“Lotus,” he said.

mesmerized by shimmering black hair,

shimmering, twinkling eyes and

fluttering lashes

“Tell me it’s okay.”

“It’s okay.”

“Please.…”

“Yes, everything’s going to be okay.”

he talked with fingertips and purple nails

as the music thumped through them, he was close and as the night wore on, he drew closer

They walked out of the club and looked up.

“Your eyes are the closest thing to the stars I will ever know.”

“And your eyes are the closest thing to oblivion.”

Chapter 20

My Favorite Threesome

I was doing a signing in my home town of Austin, Texas, sitting in the record store, at a table, with a pen in my hand, signing copies of my band, Bad Boi Pretty’s, album, Not Plain Like You.

I had been there a few hours and I was feeling fidgety. The bottle of Jack Daniel’s I kept on the table was 2/3 gone and I was determined to finish it. Things were getting kind of hazy.

I was getting irritable. A guy can only take so much adoration and star-worship before he’s heard it all before.

Here’s a summary of how it went:

“Oh god, you’re so great. I touch myself when I think of you. You made me cum numerous times. I want you. I’ll do anything.” blah blah. And there are only so many blow jobs a guy can get under the table before he gets bored.

It’s one of those plagues of being famous. A rock star. A human god.

I had a pile of women’s panties that girls had given to me sitting next to me on the table. I was contemplating wiping the pile to the ground and saying “fuck it” to it all.

Fortunately, things were coming to a close. The line of people in front of the table was getting shorter and they had stopped letting people inside the store.

Now here was a little kid. A boy. He was babbling, “Oh, Mister lotus, you’resogreat (he rubbed his nose) andiloveyourstuffthatyousingsomuchitscooliloveitithinkitsgoodandpleasesignmyalbum.”

I just looked at him for a moment, like, “what the fuck?” you know? So I took the album and I signed it,

fuck off, little runt.

—lotus

The kid looked at it and broke into a huge grin. “Thanks man!” and he hopped off on his way off to do whatever the fuck kids do, I dunno, play video games or sniff paint or experiment with sex on stuffed animals or something. Fuck if I know.

But this story is about a threesome.…

So finally, after the little boy, the last people in line were these two girls.…

They were giggling.

They were definitely hot. One girl was pale-skinned with long, violet hair, the other girl was pale with shoulder-length, brown hair.

I could tell immediately that something was up, well actually, the first thing I did was check out their boobs, obviously naked underneath their loose, black lace shirts—but after that I could … well, actually, the next thing I did was look between their legs. The one girl was wearing a black leather miniskirt, so of course I couldn’t help but wonder if she was wearing panties. The other girl wore skintight, black latex pants and they sweetly hugged every line and fold of that sweet, puffy cooch. And by the time I had looked at all of that, something definitely was up, or on its way up.…

So they were giggling … then looking at each other, then giggling again, then looking at me, then giggling again, then looking at each other.

As they stepped up to the table, the warm scent of their perfume wafted off of their bodies.

I wanted them.

So I took another swig of the JD and consumed them with my eyes, taking them all in as well as I could in my dizzy state. I was staring at the lush one’s body. I bet she’s soft, I thought.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello Lotus,” said the violet-haired girl.

My ears immediately perked, for in that lovely voice, I heard something … lust, sex. I looked deeply into her eyes—her eyes were violet like her hair, like two amethysts—her long lashes fluttered like butterfly wings and I saw her visibly shiver and straighten her back. I guess that my green eyes must be like emeralds—chicks seem to like them. I glanced at the other girl and she was staring at me, in that smitten expression I’ve come to know well.

“I’m Mary and this is Tina.”

“Hi, Mary, hi Tina.”

The violet-haired girl set her copy of the album on the table, then the brunette, in an overly fast, twitchy movement, set her copy on the table then moved her arm away like she was afraid I was going to hit her or something.

“We really love your songs.”

“Thank you very much.”

The violet-haired girl looked into my eyes, and said, “We were wondering if you would.…” She bit her lip.

“Yes?.…” I said, arching my brow.

“We were wondering if you would … sign our breasts,” she said and inhaled.

“Certainly,” I replied, and picked up the marker I kept for that purpose.

They smiled cutely, then lifted their black lace shirts.

And then I was staring at those two pairs of gorgeous, round breasts, jiggling with their nervous laughter, softly rising and falling to the rhythm of their breaths.

Tina’s breasts were lush and round, with silver rings dangling from her red nipples. And Mary’s were cute and small and perky, with pink nipples.

“Beautiful,” I said.

“Thank you,” they both said shyly, at the same time.

They each took their turn leaning over the front of the table for me to sign their breasts. I held their breasts gently, and signed them,

property of lotus

then I drew a little circle around their nipples.

I was sorry to see those breasts covered again when they lowered their shirts. I think I even might have pouted.

But I did not cry. I remembered they wanted me to sign their albums, so I slid one of them over on the table and I signed it:

for tina,

nice boobs,

—lotus

I was about to sign the other album, but I didn’t, and here’s why … I had a sense.

Even through my alcohol-addled brain, I still had a keen sense, a way of reading girls and my sense was telling me there were more possibilities here. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t much of a sense. Maybe it was obvious.

I stood up, took another swig of whiskey.

I walked up to them. “So.…” I said.

They grinned. They knew what was on my mind. I am no fool. They knew it was going to happen all along. Females lure us males, don’t they, and make us think it’s our idea.

The brunette laughed nervously. She said, “Normally, I’m not shy at all, but it’s just … actually meeting you.… I love your album so much. It really touched me.”

I arched my brow at that. She blushed. I have a thing for blushes and cute, shy girls. And here was this girl with her cheeks blooming red, like she had been recently slapped, quivering with her attraction to me.

My insides were telling me, “pounce.”

In a soft voice, I said, “I’d like to touch you.”

She shyly looked down. “I’d like to touch your hair,” she said.

Chicks dig my hair—it’s so long, so soft and fluffy. My hair, how women love to feel it, they love to caress it, brush it, they like to feel it on their body, tingling soft against their skin.

“I’d let you,” I said, “if.…”

“Yes?”

“If you show me if you’re wearing panties.”

“I’m not,” she said.

My voice become forceful and I stared intensely into her eyes. “Show me,” I said.

She bit her lip and with her arm trembling slightly, she lifted up her miniskirt to reveal her beautiful shaved pussy, with her cute, pink labial lips blaring out against her pale skin.

I noticed the violet-haired girl was looking at me, watching my face.

I slipped my hand between the brunette’s legs and caressed her. She felt warm and soft. She arched her back and took a deep breath of pleasure.

I looked at the violet-haired girl. Her eyes were narrowed in lust. I ordered her, “Pull those pants down and show me your bottom.”

She looked at me, then did as she was told.

I smacked her bottom hard:

SMACK!

She squealed in a mixture of pleasure and surprise, then looked at me in that adorable, cutesy way that said she wanted more, so what can I say? I grabbed me a handful of booty and jiggled it.

She smiled naughtily at me.

“I want you,” I said to them both.

They didn’t say anything.

“Would you like to come back to my apartment?”

They both nodded. It was so cute.

“Shall we go in my limo or would you like to follow it?”

“Follow it,” said the violet-haired girl.

“Would you like to wear my chains?”

“Yes.”

There’s a reason I wear so many chain bracelets. I wear a total of four bondage-bracelets on my wrists, so that I’ll have enough to transfer to the wrists of two girls if the need arises. It’s convenient that I have small wrists as well, so the bracelets I wear are not too big for most girls’ wrists.

I removed the bracelets from my wrists and slipped them around the girls’ wrists. Now they were mine for the evening.

When we got to my apartment, we lay on the bed and started kissing.

And they played with my hair and they licked and sucked my fingers—oh, how girls adore my long, purple nails—and then their four breasts were jiggling up and down with their sinuous movements, and moans and hisses of breath, sweet music of our intertwining, nipples hard, pointing out, she rolled her head, then Tina started licking those hard nipples and Mary whimpered—wetness oozing out of them, and I was spanking them, turning their bottoms red and hooking the rings on the bracelets together and I made them kneel and I pushed them around and kissed them and I dressed them in my clothes—mesh and lace and vinyl—watched them kissing, tongues darting together—and Tina bumped Mary’s head and laughed—and they licked my penis at the same time, licking, licking—feeling their warm breath on my skin, hearing their sweet voices, being inside them both, jingling of chains and leashes, intertwining of arms and legs and hair, licking and sucking the yearning tips of their nipples, watching as they pressed their breasts together, feeling the creamy skin of breasts and flicking parts of them with my pierced tongue, tasting their pleasure. The hours went by with panting breaths and moans and beautiful orgasm after orgasm until we stopped and lay together.

Afterwards, we cuddled together and talked, then slept. They were two college girls from the university. I promised them I wouldn’t reveal too much about them in this story, so that’s all I’ll say.

In the morning we ordered a pineapple pizza and listened to music. They each took a quick shower before they left.

But before Mary stepped out the door, she turned to me and handed me her copy of the album.

I took it from her hand, my hand lightly brushed hers as I did.

I signed it:

for mary,

thanks for the threesome.

i had a lovely time.

—lotus

Chapter 21

The Girl Next Door

The day she had moved in, Todd had fallen in love with her. Up to that point, he felt, when he had come home from Physical Anthropology class and seen her carrying her things from a little U-Haul trailer to the apartment next to his, he had never seen anything so beautiful.

She was so beautiful, in fact, that he had stopped dead in his tracks and stared—when the mind is encountered with such an image of perfection, it can’t help but be overcome for a moment. She had the body of a ballerina, tall and lean—svelte—with mahogany shoulder-length hair and shimmering, emerald green fawn-eyes rimmed with blue. Her face was simple, innocent, delicate. Her small, pouty lips were set in a grimace from her exertion, and she was huffing as she started up the stairs with a large cardboard box just barely encircled in her long, thin arms. He watched her long, shapely legs as they climbed the stairs; they went in adorably at the knees.

She was wearing short, frayed cut-offs. The white threads shifted as her legs lifted and stepped, lifted and stepped. Those legs.… He watched, captivated, as she turned and started up the stairs to the third floor. And he watched, spellbound, as she walked to the apartment next to his, set the box down, opened the door, picked up the box, stepped inside. Moments later, the door swung gently shut.

Todd had to shake his head, remember to breathe.

Luckily, she had not seen him.

Anxiously, hurriedly, he followed her up the stairs, part of him wanting to run into her, the larger part terrified at the possibility. But her door stayed closed the whole time, and he made it safely inside.

Todd really wanted to ask her if she needed help—knew she could use it, since the elevator was broken—but he didn’t have the courage. Instead, he looked out the peephole. Actually, he was kind of relieved that she hadn’t seen him. Todd was kind of shy around girls. Besides, what would such a gorgeous girl as her want with someone like him? He didn’t really do anything interesting. In fact, he was boring. Why would a girl as ravishing as her want to be with someone as boring as him? And besides, she probably already had a boyfriend. How could a girl like that not have a boyfriend?

And it wasn’t just that he was boring: he was also cursed by the fact the he was one of those “sensitive” kinds of guys.

He believed in love. He loved roses and sunsets. He wrote poetry. He often cried at sad movies. And one of his greatest joys was hiking, a joy he had to unfortunately indulge in alone. To be in the sun surrounded by nature, to smell the fresh air, that was paradise.

No wonder girls didn’t like him. Sure, they all said they wanted a sensitive man, but they didn’t really mean it. Nice guys finished last, Todd knew. Women, he knew, wanted the macho party-going types, the bad bois, and that just wasn’t Todd. He’d never even smoked a cigarette.

And so, though Todd knew he didn’t have a chance, but because he was a romantic, he had to hope that he might find some way to introduce himself to The Goddess Next Door. As he listened to the shuffling and shifting next door, he imagined her nubile body rubbing against boxes. How he longed to caress her soft cheek, to smell her luxuriant hair, to someday be the only one to hold her in his arms and whisper, “I love you.”

And how he was tormented by the notion of walking next door and introducing himself as her new neighbor. But that was so tacky! Did anyone actually do that? Maybe he should bring her an apple pie, too. But still, he considered it, twice even making steps towards the door, but he was timid. Too damn timid!

Then he thought he might listen for her door to open and when she came out, he might do so as well.

But four more times the door opened and closed—four more times he watched her pass briefly through the peephole’s distorted view—but he did nothing.

Then the door closed and didn’t open again.

Sadly, he tore himself from the peephole.

His opportunity had passed.

He couldn’t stop thinking of her. Much of his time that next week was spent on dreamily pondering the fine young maiden, constantly wondering what it would be like for her to be next to him, to be able to feel her, to hear her breathing. And he wrote poetry about her. Here was his most recent work-in-progress (out of eight):

Ode to the Girl Next Door

Beautiful maiden next door,

You are the one I truly adore.

Russet hair and luscious skin;

Your heart do I desire to win.

Pouty lips and eyes of green;

Loveliest girl I’ve ever seen.

She always left her blinds open during the day. But he never looked inside, never passed by. Because he was afraid she might be there, afraid she might see him and know he was looking in on her. And even if she wasn’t there, he just … couldn’t, because if he looked inside, he would have to admit to himself that he had become hopelessly infatuated with her—someone he had never even met.

Every once in a while, here and there, he would catch a glimpse of Her from afar, leaving or coming back to her apartment, getting into her car—once he’d seen her carrying a bag of groceries. And every time he would lapse into a dreamy state of gentle sadness.

How he tormented himself trying to figure out a way to meet her. He came up with all kinds of plans, replaying and reworking them over and over in his head. He had three “serious” plans. The first was to wait for her door to open. He would wait for her door to open and then he would “happen” to be leaving at the same time. “Hi,” he would say suavely, yet casually, and she would look down shyly and know that she had finally found her one true love—or so it went when he played the scene in his daydreams. But he didn’t know when she came and went. He might have to wait all day, and even so, talking to her might seem forced and unnatural. So, instead of that, he thought he might “accidentally” run into her in the laundry room instead; it seemed like an atmosphere more conducive to talking. He also had a third, bolder scheme: he might knock on her door to borrow something. Milk, he had decided. But he hated when people did that to him, and besides, he probably didn’t have the courage.

Actually, he probably didn’t have the courage to do anything. And if he did somehow manage to legitimately accidentally run into her, he would probably be too shy to speak in any more than monosyllables—if that much. So all of his scheming was moot.

Better to just accept his role in life, he thought. He would never have a girl as beautiful as her for a girlfriend.

Besides, a girl as lovely as her probably had enough nobodies bothering her.

Maybe if he had a good car, or lots of muscles or a charming personality or lots of money … but he didn’t.

Better not to bother her.

But one day, coming home from school, a sudden overwhelming, irresistible urge came over him to see inside. He had been silly before to make such a big deal about looking in her window, he decided. He started towards the stairs on the opposite side of the apartment complex. That way, he would be able to pass her apartment on the way to his.

I have it bad, he thought as he finally reached the third floor. His knees were wobbly, his heart was pounding, he was starting to sweat. Some of it was from climbing the stairs, but mostly it was because he was so excited.

He faltered slightly. What if she’s there? he thought, for some reason the full weight of that possibility hadn’t hit him until right then. Well, then, she would be there. He told himself to quit being such a coward.

He continued.

As a matter of fact, she was there—her hair in a ponytail, her side to the window, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of a tree—a tiny tree—one of those bonsai trees. She held a book in her hands and seemed to be reading out loud. Behind the tree sat what appeared to be a large mound of leaves and flower petals. And on the floor, all around the edges of the small room, sat various kinds of potted flowers. And that was all: there wasn’t any furniture.

Unconsciously, he had slowed his pace, couldn’t help staring at the mesmerizing scene inside that little room. But then, just as he was almost past, she started to turn her head! He had to speed up to avoid her eyes, her lovely eyes, though he truly wished with all his heart that he could gaze into them. Just barely, he edged past. If she had seen him, it had only been a glimpse.

He wondered, had she known?

He had only meant to glance, but she had been so beautiful and the flowers so captivating that he hadn’t been able to help himself.

But so what if she had known? He had to stop being so sensitive, he told himself. After all, all he’d done was look inside her window.

But still, he somehow felt guilty—as if he had intruded on something private—something he had no right to share … nor ever would.

He was ashamed.

As he opened his door, he suddenly realized that, over the past two weeks, she had come in his mind to be more of a real person—more than simply the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, more than some unattainable fantasy. Maybe their coming together wasn’t such an impossibility after all. She seemed undeniably eccentric, but there was nothing wrong with that. All those flowers.… She seemed to be someone who appreciated beauty. Might she be someone with a romantic soul like his?

She had been so beautiful, sitting there—beauty amidst beauty.

He wanted to meet her even more.

But how?

Two days later, he got his Chance.

Todd was leaving to go to the grocery store. As he opened the door, he saw Her entering the laundry room with an empty cardboard box—resourceful, he thought.

Now Todd had just washed laundry three days ago, but that didn’t matter—he would simply wash some of his clothes again. Hurriedly, he threw what was already dirty into the basket, along with some clean T-shirts for bulk, and started down the three floors to the laundry room, hoping he would make it in time.

He nearly collapsed in despair when he missed her, passed right by her, but the angle had been all wrong—and there hadn’t even been any eye contact. He had panicked at the last moment and snuck past her as she was leaving—had shuffled past with eyes on the ground and shoulders bowed.

What an idiot!

But he had been close to her, mere inches from her. For a moment they had shared the same space. She had smelled of flowers.

All Todd could do was sigh. She was so beautiful and he was so … incompetent.

And she probably wouldn’t be back; the box had looked heavy in her arms, which meant she had probably been carrying her dry laundry.

Todd felt defeated as he stood loitering in the laundry room, preparing to leave.

But some strange sentimental notion caused him to look forlornly at the dryers, wondering which was the one She had used, had touched.

There was something still left in the top left dryer.

His heart skipped. It might be hers.

It might be something to be returned to her.

He reached in, grabbed the piece of clothing, and pulled out …

… They were panties!—pink thong panties. Quickly, guiltily, he looked around the room. Fortunately, no one had seen.

He looked back down at them, briefly allowed a vision of her in them to flash through his mind. Sadly, he prepared to put them back in the dryer. There was no way he could return such an item to The Girl of His Dreams.

What had seemed his Big Chance had been nothing of the sort.

He was still staring at them, caressing them between his thumb and finger—they were so soft. He was just about to replace them. A few seconds later, he would have replaced them, wouldn’t have been holding them when.…

“Oh, there they are!” the female voice exclaimed.

It was Her, the box still in her arms.

Todd froze. He felt extremely uncomfortable, could feel the blush coming to his cheeks. He set his eyes on the ground and awkwardly held them out to her, and began mumbling, “I saw them in the uh dryer so I took them out to look at them, but I thought.… I mean I was going to.…” All the while he knew he was stammering, but he couldn’t stop. “I didn’t know they were yours,” he finally mumbled.

The Girl tilted her head, crinkled her brow, and pouted. She was looking at him. Todd felt the blush grow stronger. He could smell flowers again. She continued looking at him, and then, when he thought he wouldn’t be able to stand her gaze any longer, her face lit up, and she chipperly exclaimed, “That’s alright! I’m glad you didn’t take them.” Todd looked more intently at the ground. “I need them for work,” she explained.

Work? If he were not so petrified with anxiety, he might have asked her what she meant, but instead, he barely managed a very quiet “Mm hmm.” Too damn shy!

This first meeting was a failure. Todd desperately wanted to be out of there. He could feel huge drops of sweat dripping from his armpits.

And he could feel Her eyes—those glimmering, lovely green eyes, piercing him from their frames of blue. Please, he begged himself, meet them! If for just a moment, if you do nothing else, you will at least have that! But he couldn’t.

“Okay, well I guess I’ll see you around,” she said.

Had that been sadness he had heard in her voice?

He watched her leave—watched as her slender, delicate form seemed to glide over the ground—watched as her arms swayed back and forth, seemed to float. There was a grace to her walk that was almost musical.

She was still the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

Unfortunately, it could never be, not after this. He had made a total fool of himself. She probably thought he was a jerk. There was no way he could ever face her again after this.

Todd knew he was being decidedly maniacal as he pulled out after her little blue economy car, but he couldn’t help himself. He didn’t know what had possessed him to follow her. He had been coming back from the mall, had seen her getting into her car, and had just done it. Obsession? Fanaticism? He settled on strong infatuation; it sounded less … insane. He promised himself that this would be the one and only time he would do something like this. After this, he would put her out of his mind and move on with his life. Closure, that’s what this was—a symbolic ending.

She headed north, took a right, then took another right, all the while with Todd following, keeping a few car lengths behind.

She pulled into the parking lot of The Austin Showplace. Todd drove past, then a couple of minutes later, circled back around.

The Austin Showplace was a topless bar.

Todd felt a combination of anxiety and exhilaration as he walked to the entrance.

Did she dance there?

She had said she needed the panties for work.

The man sitting behind the podium at the entrance checked his ID and told him to tuck in his shirt. As he made his way to the inner doors, he almost turned back, but he wanted—needed—to see her. He no longer cared, he told himself. He didn’t care if she saw him, if she hated him. He didn’t have a chance anyway—not with a topless dancer. Topless dancers were wild and promiscuous and liked the bad bois.

He was sad as he opened the door. Inside, it was dark, the room filled with a bunch of men drinking beers, all leering at the woman on the stage or at their table, the air writhing with pulsating electronic music.

Anxiously, he scanned the room. None of the dancers were Her. Nor were any of the waitresses.

Todd sat at a table in the back of the room. He ordered a beer. And waited.

The present girl was quite beautiful, with violet-colored hair and a violet thong bikini and pumps.

But she wasn’t Her.

The six guys near the stage were hooting and howling and yelling approving comments at her.

A few minutes later, the music ended, and the announcer said, “Let’s hear it for Angel, gentlemen!” as she disappeared back behind the curtains.

The music started up again. This time a different song, but still electronic dance music.

And then She appeared from behind the curtains.

Todd’s heart fluttered.

She glided onto the stage on long, graceful legs, the pink bikini shocking against the paleness of her skin and high cut, making her long legs even longer. And with the music thumping a sensual beat, she brought her hands up through her hair, let it fall.

My God, she’s beautiful.

For just the moment, Todd imagined that she was dancing just for him—was enthralled, mesmerized by her body, her movement, her eyes—watched, captivated, as she moved about the stage, like an oblivious erotic Goddess, sinuously dancing, hips swaying.…

And then her long, thin arms unlooped one strap of her bra.

And then the other, she all the while twirling and swaying, her hand to her chest, pouting lips closed, oblivious.

And then it was off.

And her breasts were beautiful, were small, delicate mounds with light red nipples. And she was the world, the most important thing in his life, right at that moment.…

Then the guys in front, a bunch of frat-bois, started to boo her.

And the serenity on Her face disappeared, replaced by hurt.

They had disturbed the Goddess.

Todd felt the anger rise from his stomach into his throat. He normally wasn’t the type to shout at a large group of guys, but something snapped inside of him. He yelled for them to shut up.

They turned to look drunkenly at him, then turned back and started booing even louder.

Todd wasn’t normally the type to then walk up to a large group of guys, either, but that’s what he found himself doing.

“I said shut up,” he said to all of them.

The one closest to him on his right stood up and lined himself up face to face with him. His breath smelled like beer. “Why don’t you go back to your seat and mind your own business?”

Todd stared into the drunken man’s eyes. They were dilated. “Not until you apologize to her.”

It was then that he felt large, firm hands yank him back by the shoulders and guide him toward the doors. Looking back across the room, her green, sparkling eyes met his.

When he was outside, all the bouncer said was, “Leave.” He was a big man.

Todd got into his car and drove off, but not before getting to see the group of frat-bois walking through those doors with the same big man behind them.

It was about four hours later that she knocked on his door—a soft, timid knock, like a caress. He couldn’t decide whether to open the door or not; he watched her in the peephole. She had changed clothes: to jeans and a frilly white short-sleeve blouse and a bunch of colored bead necklaces. She was standing with her hand on her hip, waiting. Was she mad at him for watching her dance? Did she suspect he had followed her? He tried to read her face, but it had grown dark outside. He watched her some more as she shifted her weight. She didn’t look angry; her knock hadn’t sounded angry.

His arms felt numb and weightless as he opened the door.

When he saw her, he suddenly felt like he was in a dream.…

It was actually Her, standing right there before him … so close. He could see her breathing, could feel the warm scent of flowers as it drifted off of her. Could feel her eyes touching his. His chest went tight. So beautiful.

She was smiling. “Hi. I wanted to thank you for what you did,” she said, her voice soft and entrancing.

Todd was losing himself in her eyes. “No problem,” he said, suddenly remembering himself.

“But it really wasn’t necessary. Frank would’ve taken care of them.”

“Oh.” Dammit! He was starting to clam up!

She cocked her head. “Why did you do it?”

Todd wanted to tell her why—he really did—wanted to tell her that she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, that he wanted more than anything to be with her, but the words caught in his throat. “They were being rude,” he finally managed.

She looked down. “I thought you didn’t like me before … in the laundry room.”

“I liked you,” Todd said to comfort her, then blushed as he suddenly realized the meaning behind those words. “I was just nervous.” There, he had said it.

She looked up at him. “Nervous?”

Somewhere, he found courage. “Yes, because you were so … beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly and lowered her head.

Todd didn’t know what to say next.

There was an awkward silence.

She raised her head, peered into his eyes; he felt a tingle shoot through his body. She tilted her head and a wisp of hair shifted over her left eye.

“What’s your name?” she asked sweetly.

“Todd,” he answered, feeling very awkward.

She repeated it. “Todd.” It was like she was tasting it. “Todd,” she started, something strange about her voice, “would you like to have sex?” Todd felt a twinge in a part of his body that embarrassed him. He blushed.

He couldn’t speak. Was this some kind of joke? This was unbelievable! This was like a dream come true, like some kind of fantasy! The Most Beautiful Girl in the World was propositioning him! He wanted to pull her to him, gently lift her shirt, cup her delicate breast in his hand, and then.… But this wasn’t right. Todd was a romantic. And this wasn’t romantic. He didn’t even know her. Didn’t even know her name. The Most Beautiful Girl in the World was special; he wanted to know her, love her, not just have sex with her and he didn’t think having sex with her now would set a good foundation for a future relationship.

And, besides, who was he to make love to The Most Beautiful Girl in the World! It was like a mortal making love to a goddess! She would surely be disappointed—had probably had many lovers more skilled than him, and better built. He would spare her that disappointment.

But she was so beautiful.

Todd was frozen. His mouth was open, but no words came out.

“Nod for yes,” she said, looking at him inquisitively.

Todd didn’t nod, though a part of him really really wanted to.

“Okay, well … my name is Candy. I live next door.” Did she actually think he didn’t know? “Feel free to visit anytime.”

This time Todd managed to nod clumsily. He still couldn’t speak.

“Bye Todd.” And before he could flinch, she quickly gave him a kiss on the cheek. Smiled.

Todd stood stunned with the door open and no one there for several seconds before finally coming to and shutting it.

At first he thought that maybe she knew he had a crush on her and had decided to toy around with him. But it hadn’t seemed like that at all. She had seemed genuine … and sweet, which puzzled him. She didn’t quite seem the type that would dance topless and proposition people she didn’t know.

It took two days for him to gather enough courage to knock.

The sweet aroma of flowers washed over him as the door opened, and then she was standing before him in a long rust-colored peasant dress.

“Todd! Hi!” She seemed genuinely excited to see him. That was a good sign.

Todd said “Hello.”

“Umm.… You want to come in and talk?”

“Sure.” Todd was nervous, but not too nervous. His legs only shook a little as he stepped in.

He looked around, pretending it was the first time he had seen it all. His eyes rested finally on the tiny tree in the center of the room.

“That’s my little bonsai tree, Pookie.” She looked as if she had said something she wasn’t supposed to, flashed him puppy eyes. “Do you think it’s funny to name a tree?”

“No, a lot of girls nowadays name their plants. I think it’s cute.” He was proud of himself for being so congenial.

Candy beamed. Todd couldn’t help but smile back.

“Yes, it is,” she said, childlike. “I really really like my tree. I set up all these flowers so that it would be more like a forest for it.” She was proud as she swept the room with her arm.

“It’s very nice,” he said, and he meant it.

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have any furniture.”

“No.”

Maybe she hadn’t had time yet. Maybe he could offer to go shopping with her. “Are you going to get any?”

“Probably not. I like it the way it is now.” She looked uncomfortable. Todd realized she might feel like he was criticizing her.

“Do you have a bed?”

“No.” She was playing with her feet.

“Then where do you sleep?” he asked, not meaning to be rude, but genuinely confused.

She pointed to the mound of leaves and flower petals. “There … next to my tree,” she said meekly, looking to see his reaction.

Todd looked at the tree, the scrawny, tiny tree. Lucky tree, he thought. Candy was a strange one, he also thought, but he couldn’t help but find her adorable. He somehow felt more warmly towards her knowing that she had quirks—they made her more real, more human, more accessible. But then again, she might have some kind of mental illness. That would not be good at all.

“Do you have a television?” he asked.

“No television,” she answered.

Uncomfortable silence.

“Would you like some fruit?” she asked with a flourished arm sweep to the refrigerator.

Todd wasn’t really into fruit, even though he was a vegetarian.

“Sure,” he said as cheerily as he could muster. This would be a good way to endear himself to her. “What have you got?”

“Well.…” She walked over to the refrigerator. Todd followed. She opened the refrigerator door.

There were melons and oranges and half a loaf of wheat bread and a jar of strawberry jam and a jar of honey and a bottle of grape juice and a head of lettuce and a cucumber and a can opener and grapes and a box of strawberries and some bolillo rolls and celery.

“… I have oranges and grapes and.… Well, you can see for yourself. You can have whatever you want.” A dirty thought popped into his head. Control yourself, he thought.

Todd liked oranges. “I think I’ll have an orange,” he said.

“Okay.” Another smile. She grabbed the bag, closed the door, then placed the bag on the counter. “Did you know …” she said as she riffled through the bag, “that if you keep fruit in the refrigerator, that it will not stay rotten for longer.…” She looked at Todd quizzically and her mouth screwed up. “… that it will longer be unrotten.…” But that wasn’t quite right either.

So cute.

Todd chuckled. “That it will stay unrotten longer,” he said.

She tilted her head, thought some. “Yeah, that’s it, it will stay unrotten longer!” And she giggled cutely.

More awkward silence. Candy flashed him a curious glance, but it was gone so quickly he couldn’t tell what it was. But he had liked it.

“How’s this one?” she asked, handing it to him. Her hand slightly brushed his in the exchange and he suddenly got goose bumps. He hoped she didn’t notice.

“It’s beautiful!” he proclaimed melodramatically. In his mind, he really meant her.

“Yes, it is.” For a moment, she seemed at a loss of anything to say, then she said, “I like oranges better when they’re cold.”

“Me too.” Todd found himself at a loss, too. “So where are you from?”

She looked down and mumbled, “Outside of Fresno,” seeming uncomfortable.

“Why did you move to Austin?” he asked.

Candy grinned. “It’s a funny story. See, the place where I lived got their first phone installed, and as soon as it was hooked up, there was a phone call! And guess who it was?” She giggled.

“I don’t know. Who?”

“It was Mary! You remember Mary–well, her stage name is Angel. She danced before me … she has violet-colored hair.”

Todd nodded. “Oh yeah. I remember.” He grinned.

“Yeah, see, she had dialed a wrong number, and had just happened to reach me! Well, we got to talking and I told her how I wanted to move, and the next thing I knew, we were making plans for me to move to Austin! She got me my job as a stripper! Hey, did you know my refrigerator has a separate compartment for making ice?” She was pointing at the freezer. “Would you like some water with ice?”

Had Candy been living in an Amish colony all her life?

He said no thanks to the “water with ice.”

Todd felt this was a good time to bring it all to a close. Talk a while and then get out.

“So, I’ve seen you around with a backpack,” Candy was saying. “Are you a student at the university?”

“Mm hmm.”

His plan was to not talk too long, and then at the end, to casually and nonchalantly say, “You know, we should get together sometime and do something.” He had practiced saying it in the mirror.

“What’s your major?” she was saying now.

“Anthropology.” He said it cheerily, hoping he didn’t seem fake.

“Wow, that’s neat!”

“I think so.” You know, we should get together sometime and do something.

There was a silence.

“Well …” Todd started, trying to sound as nonchalant as he could, “I guess I’ll go,” and then gesturing with the orange, “Have to put this orange in the refrigerator so that it will stay unrotten.” She smiled at that. Todd paused for what he felt was an appropriate amount of time. And here it goes. “You know, we should.…”

Just then, the phone rang from the other room.

She bit her tiny lip.

“Hold that thought,” she said sweetly with her long, slender, gorgeous finger up.

She walked to the bedroom door, then disappeared behind it, leaving it open slightly. Inside, all he could see were a bunch of clothes lying on the floor.

He wasn’t really trying to listen, but that kind of thing is hard to help, and she had left the door partially open, which made it easier for him to eavesdrop. When she answered the phone she said hello like she was greeting someone, which Todd thought was kind of strange, because most people said it as a question. She was silent for a moment, then she started whispering some words he couldn’t make out, but he thought he heard the words “stop calling.” Another short silence, then he clearly made out “I’m going”—said slowly and firmly, then she said something else very brief that he couldn’t make out. More silence. Then, still speaking forcefully, “I have to go. Goodbye.” The phone clicked as she hung it up.

The smile on her face as she came out of the room was unlike any he had seen before on her lovely face. It was contrived—nervous and afraid underneath. Her arms were crossed and she was trembling slightly.

Todd felt bad for her. He wished he could hold her and comfort her, but he couldn’t.

“Sorry about that,” she said and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

“That’s okay,” he said … and then when she didn’t respond, “Well I guess I’ll go.” It seemed inappropriate to spring his line on her now.

“Bye Todd,” she said as he left.

He had turned and smiled tenderly.

It was four days after his last encounter with Candy and two days before his Monday morning Spanish test. He was doing some of his workbook homework—a page on the past-imperfect tense … with twelve more pages to go. He was just getting ready to go down to the local convenience store for a soda when there was a loud boom against the wall—from Candy’s apartment. It sounded like someone had slammed the door open—hard.

Todd felt a queasy feeling in his stomach. Something was wrong.

Through the wall, he heard Candy’s startled voice shout out, “Felix!”

A rough voice answered harshly back, “That’s right, honey! Your vacation is over!”

And then Candy was calling a different name: Todd’s.

The man standing in front of the door inside of Candy’s apartment turned to look as Todd rushed over. He was quite ugly and short, with a short beard, dark complexion, beady eyes. And he was dressed oddly, almost comically. On top of his head he wore one of those sock caps, low and shifted back, so that it even covered his ears—a bit warm, Todd thought, to be wearing in the summer. He had on a T-shirt with the words “SNO LEMON” on it and a pair of really baggy blue jeans, which, on his short frame, made him look ridiculously squat. But despite the concealing size of his pants, it seemed that something—his stance or something—was not quite right … and his shoes—a ridiculously large pair of high-top sneakers—didn’t quite fit right either. He absolutely reeked of alcohol and cigarettes—it was apparent even over and above the smell of flowers.

Todd was quite taken aback, and despite the man’s short stature, quite afraid.

“Who’s this, your new boyfriend?” he called without taking his eyes off of Todd. His glare dripped with venom.

Todd looked over to Candy. She was kneeling in front of the tree, a book lying open on the ground next to her.

“He’s my neighbor!” she shouted with a scowl.

“Not anymore, he’s not! Now get your things together, you’re coming with me!”

“I’m not going anywhere with you! I’m staying here!” She screamed it hysterically and she seemed on the verge of tears. “Todd, make him go away!”

Her glimmering green eyes were pleading with him.

Felix was cringing at the sheer volume she had managed to muster. He looked nervously out the window, then past Todd in the doorway. “Jeez, Candy, bring it down a little!” and then to Todd: “Man, she’s got a pair of lungs on her! And not such a bad pair of ta-tas, eh Todd?”

Todd could honestly say that he hated this man. His hands formed into fists.

Candy was sobbing. “Make him go away, Todd!” she pleaded through sniffles.

“Oh, hush, Candy, why do you have to be so damn emotional? You’re making all that blue shit around your eyes run.” He spied Todd’s curled fists. “Now, Toddster, calm down. Are we gonna fight? Cuz I really need a cigarette.”

“Why don’t you just leave?” Todd replied.

Felix reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes—Marlboro Lights. “Oh, come on, neighbor. I just want to talk with my woman.” He put a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, inhaled, then blew out a long, noisy breath of smoke. He looked at Todd. “I suppose you aren’t going to go away.”

“Only if Candy wants me to.” He looked over at her. She was shaking her head.

“Well, then, come in. You’re letting all the precious air-conditioning out.” He said this tight-lipped with the cigarette dangling limply from his mouth.

Looking to Candy, she seemed uncertain and wary.

“Candy?” he asked.

“Come in,” she said.

“And grab some paper towels off the counter there for her,” Felix added.

Todd came in and knelt beside her. He grabbed her shoulder and asked if she was okay and she nodded timidly. He went to the kitchenette counter, tore a couple sheets off the paper towel roll, then walked back to Candy and handed them to her.

Felix had closed the door. He took in a long drag off his cigarette, held it for a moment, then exhaled, surrounding his head in a large, billowy cloud of smoke, his glaring eyes looking them over.

“Will you look at her?” he said finally to Todd, gesturing. “Living in … this. Living among you people. Trying to pretend she’s one of you—with her phone and her car and her refrigerator,” then sweeping his hand to her, “… wearing clothing.” Candy had winced, then Felix said, “It’s ridiculous.” She scowled.

Wearing clothing?

Felix looked to Candy, who was giving him a mean face back.

“Well I’m sorry, Candy. You had your month of adventure and now it’s time to come back home. Of course, you will be punished appropriately. Say babe, you got an ashtray or something?”

“No,” she said with a crinkly face.

Felix shrugged and flicked the ashes on the floor.

Candy glared even harder.

Felix shot a mock scowl back. It made his already ugly face hideous.

“Don’t worry about it, Candy my sweet. It’s not like you’ll be living here anymore, because I’m taking you back. Now pack your things.” Then, with a flip of his head: “Todd, you can help her.”

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Candy said with a talking-to-an-idiot voice. “I’m not going anywhere. Get over it. I got permission to leave.”

“Just a small bag, leave the rest here,” Felix was saying.

“I got permission to leave,” Candy persisted with a stern voice, even though tears still glistened on the side of her nose. “And you’re not supposed to be here. I could report you.” She hesitated a little bit too long, then with a slightly trembling voice, said, “If you go away, I’ll forget this ever happened.”

Felix frowned at this. He exhaled a long breath of smoke through his nose.

“One more chance,” was all he said, all the flippancy apparently exhaled with the smoke.

Candy’s response was a firm and clear, “No.”

He sighed.

“Well then, I’m going to have to take the tree.”

Candy erupted into tears. “No!” This time she shouted it. “Todd?” The look she gave up to him was desperate and scared. Todd had never known he was capable of such feelings of protectiveness. He didn’t understand why the tree was so important to her, it was only necessary that it was. He took a step towards the little ugly man.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Felix said with such assuredness that it stopped Todd in his tracks.

He transferred the cigarette from his hand to his mouth, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the gun. He pointed it at the middle of Todd’s chest.

“Now Candy, scoot your pretty ass up against the wall,” he said in the funny way of talking people have with cigarettes in their mouth, “or boyfriend here gets it.” Actually, what he was gesturing toward was not the wall, but the side of the kitchenette counter.

“Please,” she pleaded, sniffling and shaking, looking as helpless as a little girl.

“Do it,” he said, his voice unshakeable.

She did as he commanded, but not all the way, since there were two rows of flowers there.

“You can’t do this!” she shouted.

“Now, Todd, go to the kitchen.”

Todd did so grudgingly. All the while, he couldn’t help but think that it was all unreal. Was all of this really over a tree?

Todd could see Candy start to break down as Felix kneeled, wobbling slightly, to pick up the tiny tree.

“Please, Felix, don’t do this!” she pleaded in a shaky voice on the verge of sobbing.

Felix stood up, the pot resting against his stomach, the gun at his side. “Sorry, Candy, but you made me do this.” He shook his head. “You used to be so nice.”

“She’s still nice! You’re just a jerk!”

Felix ignored him; he was peering down at the book, squinting his eyes. “Ovid, huh?” He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, seeming to think for a moment, then shifted his gaze to Todd and sneered. “Tell me, Todd, when she looks at you, do hot passions in her bosom rise? Flush in her cheeks and sparkle in her eyes? Does she long and burn to clasp you in her arms? Does she look and sigh and kindle at your charms?”

Todd was dumbfounded.

Candy started to sob.

“Oh, poor Candy. You know, you brought this on yourself. Your love will have to be unrequited.” He looked her over derisively. “I would certainly enjoy nothing more than to stay and recite poetry for you, my sweet, but Todd seems rather rudely inhospitable, so I think I’ll go. If he follows me, I will shoot him. If you call the police, I’ll kill Pookie. It seems you have no choice but to come back home with me. You coming?”

Her “no” was quiet, defeated.

“Very well.” He turned around and walked to the door, slipping the gun into his pocket before opening it.

Todd might have rushed him then … maybe.

Felix pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket. “Here’s the number for my cell phone. Call me if you change your mind. My flight leaves today at six-thirty. If you don’t call, then I’ll see you in Yosemite Park. You’ll have to find your own way, though.”

He tossed the slip of paper into the air. It made a sharp curve, then tumbled end-over-end and crash-landed into some pink begonias, stuck there.

Felix stood looking at it for a moment, amused.

“Later, babe,” he said, then left, closing the door behind him.

Candy broke down.

And Todd held her, held her as rivulets of tears streamed from her eyes and she shook with sobs. And when she looked into his eyes with hers and said, “Todd you have to help me,” Todd could do no less.

They only had two hours. Less than two hours, actually—one hour and forty-seven minutes—until 6:30.

Quickly, within five minutes, they devised a plan. Candy called the violet-haired stripper named Mary, and asked her for help. Within thirty minutes, they had picked up Mary, and her “really good friend” Tina, dropped by Candy’s florist, and were on their way to the airport to intercept Felix.

Todd was concerned that Felix had arrived already, and so was Candy, but as they pulled into the airport parking lot, she suddenly seemed greatly relieved and said that Felix hadn’t arrived yet. When Todd asked her how she knew that, she said that she just did and he didn’t pursue the topic any further.

Candy said that Felix would probably be flying to either Merced or Fresno; Todd hoped she was right. The 6:30 flight to Fresno was in Gate 87A. There wasn’t a 6:30 flight to Merced.

They decided that Candy would wait at the phones in Terminal E: since Gate 87A was in Terminal F, there would be no reason for Felix to go into E. Candy picked out a phone and Tina wrote down it’s number, along with three others close by, just in case. Candy said she would sense when her tree was near, within about a half a mile, she said. She said she would call when she felt it near. Todd didn’t question her about her “sense,” nor did Mary or Tina.

They headed for Terminal F.

Gate 87A was near the end.

Mary and Todd quickly went to the waiting area by Gates 81 and 83. Tina went to a public phone nearby, where she pretended to talk. Mary stood as lookout and Todd sat with his back to the walkway so he wouldn’t be recognized. He hoped the description he had given Mary had been adequate, although he couldn’t imagine how anyone could miss a short, ugly man in those clothes—especially if he was carrying a tree.

They waited, knowing that any number of things might go wrong. Todd’s greatest fear was that Felix had been outright lying and wasn’t going to show up at all. He couldn’t bear to see Candy have to go back to that … man.

They waited a long time: 27 minutes.

“Tina’s making the ‘he’s coming’ sign,” Mary finally announced, trying not to move her mouth. The “he’s coming” sign was a walking motion with her fingers to the side of her head. This was different from the “he’s here” sign, which would have been the same gesture but without the walking motion.

Candy must have called Tina. Maybe she could sense the tree after all.

What was her connection to that tree? Perhaps she was just plain crazy—had a neurotic fixation on the tree—a lot of girls seemed to have the same sort of fixation on flowers. At any rate, crazy or not, he would do his best to bring it back to her.

Mary didn’t speak again for what seemed like an eternity—the clock said four and a quarter minutes. “There he is.”

Todd wasn’t going to chance a look. “You sure?” he asked.

“He has a beard, he’s carrying a tree … and he’s ugly as hell.”

“That would be him. Don’t draw attention.”

Mary did a good job of that. For what seemed like another eternity, she pretended to be just another traveler waiting to board. Then, finally, “He’s past us. This looks like our best chance. I’m going to signal the call.”

Todd chanced a quick look. It was Felix all right. In the same funny-looking clothes. He was holding the tree with both hands up against his stomach. “Okay,” he said.

Mary gave the signal, bringing an imaginary phone discreetly to her ear for Tina to see, then she left to move into a good position.

Todd had to stay seated for now to avoid being seen.

His throat was dry. He swallowed. Any number of things could go wrong. If Felix for some reason changed his position—or if he turned around—they might have to alter their plan in progress or ditch it altogether and make a desperate attempt for the tree. It would be horrible to let Candy down.

A couple of seconds had gone by, so Tina would have called Candy by then,

then Candy …

He heard the muffled ring of a cell phone.

… Candy would call Felix and try to keep him on the line and distracted.

Todd had to force himself to breathe slow and deep. Any number of things could go wrong.…

The phone rang again, this time unmuffled.

Answer the damn phone, Felix!

The phone rang a third time.

He thought he heard what sounded like Felix’s gruff voice answer, but he couldn’t be sure.

He didn’t hear a fourth ring.

He hadn’t heard a cough either. Mary was supposed to have coughed if something went wrong.

This is it, he thought. Now or never.

He got up, met Mary’s reassuring eyes, and moved into position. Felix seemed unaware of them. So far so good.

Felix was standing by some chairs on the side of the walkway with his back to them. He held the phone to his ear with his right hand and the tree against his stomach with his left.

They started walking in tandem towards Felix, hoping he wouldn’t turn around, trying to seem casual, but in his ears, Todd’s heart was pounding a thunderous beat.

They slowed their pace. They were close now.

Felix wasn’t talking. It would be better if he was, but they couldn’t put it off for too long.

He started talking.

Todd nodded to Mary, then rushed forward. “Gotcha!” he shouted. And as Mary passed on the left, Todd pivoted and started to walk briskly in the opposite direction.

When Felix turned, he got a good view of Todd’s back. “Hey!” he cried out.

Todd kept walking.

Moments later, he felt a hand grab his arm from behind.

He turned and looked down at Felix’s scrunchy little screwed up face. He smelled much worse without the masking scent of flowers.

“Nice try,” Felix said, or rather he sneered, but there was nervousness in his voice. On the phone he repeated himself: “Nice try,” and pushed a button, then slipped the phone into his pocket.

You’re not so big without your gun, Todd thought.

He said so.

Felix seemed to be sizing him up.

“Hand it over,” he commanded finally, rising up, but there was the tiniest quaver in his voice.

Todd looked defeated and caught. His shoulders slumped. “Or what?” he asked, voice uncertain.

“Or I’ll have to take it from you,” he answered, gaining confidence.

Todd looked into his eyes, looked away. He hesitated, then held the tree out to him.

Felix appeared much less menacing as he almost daintily transferred the pot from Todd’s outstretched hands, but as soon as the transfer was complete, he immediately resumed his scowl.

“Okay,” he said, “you gave it a nice shot. Now go home. Candy ain’t nothing but a cunt to you anyway.”

Todd’s head went down. “Will you promise me just one thing?”

“What’s that?”

“Will you take care of her?”

Felix’s body relaxed and suddenly there was sadness in his eyes. “I’ll try. I really will.” He looked down, paused. “You know, I’m really not the bad guy you think I am. I’m going to take care of her. And,” he hesitated, “she doesn’t really belong here, anyway.” It seemed more like he was trying to convince himself than Todd.

Todd nodded with lips tight-set.

He watched as Felix turned and walked away, then turned himself, headed down the long crooked terminal, took a left at the main corridor, walked the short distance to Terminal E, then made his way to the phones, trying to remember exactly which phone she had been at. Candy spotted him first and waved. She watched, smiling, as he approached.

When he reached her, she said, “Thank you.”

He smiled. “You’re welcome.”

When they met up with Mary and Tina at the Terminal F entrance, Candy was beaming. In such a state, she was a truly mesmerizing sight to behold.

“Thank you Mary!” she gushed exuberantly and gave Mary a hug. Jealousy had flashed across Tina’s face. Todd wondered if his jealousy had shown. Candy turned to Tina. “Thank you Tina!” she said and hugged her. Tina relaxed and smiled. It was almost impossible to feel malice towards someone so sweet and innocent.

Candy then turned her attention to the tree. Delicately, she transferred the tiny tree from Mary’s hands and cradled it like a child.

Todd, in the meantime, was feeling decidedly neglected. Where was his hug?

During the drive back, Candy listened intently and gave constant praise as they recounted everything: how they had expertly fooled Felix, with Todd yelling to distract him and turning as if he had grabbed the tree, when in fact it had been Mary who had grabbed it; how they had done it so well that Felix had no idea that the tree Todd held was not the real one; how Todd had stalled Felix until Mary ducked into the bathroom.

Then they moved on to talking about Candy, and she suddenly became reticent. Mary asked her why the tree was so important to her and she said she had simply grown very attached to it. Mary and Tina said they both had flowers that they were very fond of as well. But Candy didn’t seem to want to talk about the topic, and the conversation drifted off of Candy and into a conversation about classes and professors—Mary and Tina also went to the university.

They dropped Mary and Tina off, then headed home. They didn’t talk much on the way. Candy mostly gazed at her tree.

At Candy’s door, Todd tried to tactfully make his leave, but to his surprise, Candy didn’t seem to want him to. “Come in,” she had said, and he had come in.

She gently returned the tree to its proper location in the center of the room and gazed affectionately at it for a moment. She’s in love with that tree, Todd thought. Then, as if suddenly realizing that he was still there, she snapped her head up to him.

For a moment their gazes met; something like amusement crossed her face, then a flash of worry, suddenly, and she excused herself to make a phone call. “You can have a drink or some fruit if you want,” she said as she headed for the bedroom door.

“Are they unrotten?” he ventured, then immediately regretted it for being too tacky, but she bit the tip of her tongue playfully and grinned at him. “Yes,” she said in mock admonishment and went to the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Todd was left with his head swimming.

He didn’t feel like any fruit or a drink.

He waited.

Candy’s voice was muffled, so he couldn’t make out any of the conversation, but her voice sounded forceful and assertive. He didn’t try very hard to decipher her words. Instead, he took in the aroma of flowers and stared at the tree, the tiny tree, trying to fathom what the allure was.

What is it about you, little tree? he thought. Of course, the tree didn’t answer. It just sat there. But after everything they’d been through, the least it could do was explain itself. You look like an overgrown piece of broccoli, he thought. The tree didn’t respond.

Candy’s conversation didn’t last very long. When she reappeared, she seemed content, was slapping her hands together like she was dusting them off. She looked over and saw him staring at the tree.

She tilted her head and looked him over. “You want to know what this is all about, don’t you?”

Todd mm hmmed meekly. He had been wondering how he might ask, or if he should do so at all.

“Really?”

Todd mm hmmed again.

“You really really do?” Now she was playing with him.

“Yes, really really,” he replied, smiling.

Then she was serious again. She played with her lips, scrunching and moving them around. “Can I trust you?”

“I think so.”

“I know I can,” she said, seemingly more to herself than to him.

She took a deep breath.

“I’m a nymph,” she said and exhaled.

Todd didn’t really know what to say.

Her eyes were fixed on his, searching.

Todd didn’t say anything.

The silence was making her nervous. “… a dryad, actually—a wood nymph … and that’s my tree,” she continued warily, pointing.

Todd was looking at her hand, not the tree. She had small, delicate wrists. Long fingers. Pink nails. He looked back into her brilliant green eyes. “A dryad,” he said. “One of those nymphs that lives and dies with her tree.”

“Yes.”

He finally found his voice. “And Felix … ?”

“… is a satyr.”

Todd was quiet again, mulling it over. Candy watched him expectantly.

“A wood nymph, huh?”

“Mm hmm.”

“And that’s your tree and Felix is a satyr, and I suppose you came from some kind of nymph colony.”

“Yes, a colony in Yosemite Park,” she answered timidly.

Todd had to think just a little bit more. It made sense: the tree, her behavior, Felix’s strange appearance.… “You know what?” he said finally, “I believe you.” Maybe he shouldn’t have, but he did.

Candy’s shoulders relaxed and she smiled.

“So why’d you leave?” he asked her.

“Well …” she started, sitting cross-legged in front of the tree, “sit down and I’ll tell ya.”

Todd sat cross-legged across from her.

It was quite uncomfortable since he wasn’t used to sitting that way.

Candy looked little Pookie over affectionately before beginning. “First of all, satyrs are such total jerks.” She pouted adorably.

“Yeah, I can see that. If Felix is anything like the rest.…”

“Oh, most of them are, and a lot of them are worse. There are some nice ones, but not a lot. I kind of need a man who will be nice and caring to me.” Todd embarrassedly let her comment pass. Could she be insinuating something? It seemed she had intensified her gaze as she had said it. “Besides,” she continued after a short silence, “I never really fit in there anyway. Nymphs are such a bunch of bubbleheads!” She looked apologetic. “I am only partly a bubblehead,” she said and giggled. “And I just love clothes! The first time I learned about them, I fell in love with them! I love the way they feel, I love the way they look, I love playing with colors! I just absolutely love them! As a matter of fact, I want to be a fashion designer!”

“Wow, that’s neat! Do you design any of your own clothes?”

“Mm hmm. I designed this,” she said, tugging at her shirt. It was a T-shirt with a sequin design of a rose on the front.

“I’m impressed.”

“You should be,” she said with a smirk. Her fingers were twiddling the frayed edges of her cutoffs. “And I like makeup too!” She put on a deep voice, obviously emulating someone in particular: “But nymphs aren’t supposed to wear makeup,” she said and stuck out her tongue. “I want to be a makeup artist too!”

It was hard not to get caught up in her exuberance.

“Sounds good to me!” Todd sounded off exuberantly.

Candy clapped her hands in joy.

Then she pouted again. “But they said I couldn’t do any of those things and be a part of the colony, so I decided to move.” Her pout grew more intense, “But then that mean old Felix followed me here. But that’s all settled.”

“Oh?”

“Yep. I talked to the council and they’re going to issue a restraining spell on him and give him six months of ostrakerzation … ostrichgemation …”

“Ostracization?”

“Yes, that, so we don’t have to worry about him anymore.” She lifted her arms. “And now here I am.” She let her arms fall, slapping her thighs. Todd had to fight to keep from staring too long. “I have a great job as a stripper, where I get to dance and wear clothes.…” She lowered her head and looked up at him. In a low voice she said, “I have a great neighbor.…” Todd blushed. “But I still haven’t made very many friends,” she said and looked sad. “I don’t have much in common with the other nymphs—I mean strippers.” The pout had made its appearance again. “And I want to have a boyfriend. Another part of the reason that I left is that I want to have a mon …” she struggled for a moment, “… ogamous relationship.” She was looking at him somewhat expectantly, it seemed to Todd.

He decided to just go for it. No more being timid.

“Did you have anyone in mind?”

She grinned and rolled her eyes to the side. “Mmm hmm.”

When her dazzling green eyes came back to him, he gazed into them. “You know, Candy,” he said, “we should get together sometime and do something.”

Candy was smiling at him.

Chapter 22

The Cleanest Part of Mary

My gargoyle lover.

We met each other in a tiny shop called Fetish where there was the cute blonde girl in tight shimmery black who I thought was prettier than me.

He was there on the shelf.

Waiting.

As if he had waited all my life.

I had no choice but to buy him.

Tiny gargoyle statue.

He was so cute.

Pug nose. Cute scowl and furrowed brow. Teeny wings. Paws and tummy.

I thought I would set the little guy on my nightstand. To watch over me as I slept—the next morning, his eyes began to glow green like tiny emeralds.

I was fond of him from the first.

It became more.

Fondness grew to adoration. Adoration to love. Love to

obsession.

I touch it.

Gentle fingertip kisses and feelings. Pleasuring caresses of my parts.

And so much tingling, rough friction.

And tremblings.

And shudderings, over and over again.

He touches the cleanest part of me.

And with him I am so dirty dirty.

I’ve never met anyone who was so much of everything to me.

It’s hard to understand what there is between us,

just,

there are parts of me that nobody has ever seen, parts deep down inside.

And with him, they are.

Tina started to Notice a long time ago. Now she Suspects.

Tina my lover.

I used to call her my beloved.

I realize that with Tina, I am mild, and she doesn’t know all the parts of me.

Sometimes when I look at Tina I think —

fuck you fuck you

fuck you, you fucking bitch

fuck you fuck you fuck you

die die die

— so that I can be with my gargoyle lover only. And have tremblings and shudderings with him over and over and over.

There used to be more between Tina and me, much more, and the memories are still a dull pain to me.

And she is starting to go away and I can feel the sadness coming off of her. I regret. I still remember.

But no matter.

I have my lover.

And we will be together forever forever.

He tells me to kill her, well, not “tells,” he feels it to me.

Feels it to me one day while I am shuddering.

So it is hard to resist.

Kill her?

But her skin is so soft, her hair so shiny and black, her tongue so exquisite and she writes such beautiful poems to me—

like this one—

this jarred butterfly

the glass cage — shattered

now a moth to the flame

forever,

Tina

I carry it folded, in my pocket, because she told me to, folded in my pocket near my softness, because she told me to.

But my devotion to my lover is complete.

As I choke her, her face starts turning blue, and her tongue sticks out. I kiss her lips, off to the side of her parted mouth.

goodbye.

Now it’s just him and me.

I lose myself in it.

pleasurepleasure

pleasurepleasure

pleasure

pleasurepleasure

He goes over and over against my softness.

And I’m squirming and oozing and moaning and shuddering over and over again.

I’m rubbing myself raw.

And it feels so good.

But one day as I am shuddering and shuddering—a long one—through my gasping breaths, through my exploding pleasure, he is feeling this:

that it is not good for me

that I must have more than this.

I cry, in the dopy daze of afterwards. Feel to him not to go. Feel to him that this is what I want, that nobody has ever known the parts of me that he knows.

But it’s no use.

He brings her back to me.

In an instant she is here again.

And we embrace once again.

And I am sorry and she is sorry.

We will be together again, like before.

And he is gone.

I have tried to renew the touches and caresses, but it does not feel the same, and his adoring green eyes have gone dull.

Little gargoyle, plastic, not even stone.

When I look at it, I feel a terrible, lonely sadness inside of me. Sometimes I cry, the tears roll down my cheek and I lick at them.

Because, still, he was the only one who touched the cleanest part of me.

All this time, the only one who ever touched the cleanest part of me.

Chapter 23

Nothing Good Ever Happens to Tina

How come nothing good ever happens to me? Tina thought as she narrowly dodged the flying plate.

Spaghetti. That would be hard to clean. Maybe she should have waited until after Mary had finished eating to tell her.

“You’re worthless!” Mary was yelling now, pounding on the table. Her bangles were jingling. Those damn bangles. All up and down her arms. Always clanking. And she wore them all the time—even at home. “Worthless, you hear me? Worthless!”

I heard you the first time.

“Nothing but a loser!” Pound. Clink. Clink. “How do you expect to pay for anything, when you keep getting fired?” Mary was staring at her now, waiting for an answer.

“I don’t know,” Tina answered. Mary looked really cute when she was angry—real pouty. Mary had the most beautiful lips.

Tina was staring at them when Mary shouted, “We’re through!” She stood up. “I’m leaving!”

Her bangles clink-clanked when she slammed the door.

Tina’s apartment suddenly seemed remarkably quiet.

Tina rested her elbows on the table and steepled her hands in front of her face.

It had not been a good day.

Just a month ago, she had thought that maybe her life was turning around. She had found a good job and she and Mary hadn’t been fighting as much, but now the two things that were going right in her life were gone. It had all been a cruel joke life had been playing on her, it seemed to Tina.

Nothing good ever happened to her.

This was her life: she was a pudgy girl with a boring personality, a junky car, living in a run-down apartment with no friends, she’d flunked out of college, and now she had no job and no girlfriend.

She wasn’t asking for much. She just wanted some balance, that’s all. Wasn’t life supposed to balance out in the long run?

She sighed. She missed Mary already. There was a stack of Mary’s books in the bedroom. She decided to sadly look through them and think of Mary, beautiful violet-haired Mary.

She sighed and started digging through the books. There was an old copy of The Nubile Verses, a lot of romance books and horror books and also a lot of books on various of Mary’s rejected interests-of-the-moment, like numerology and astrology and witchcraft.

One book caught her attention.

It was called Witches’ Spells That Really Work and Anyone Can Do.

Tina looked up “love” in the index. There had to be a spell to get Mary back.

Love

general potion for attracting, 54-55

of self, 38

recapturing, 56-57

refuting unwelcome, 42-43

Tina turned to page fifty-six.

She read over the steps of the spell. It was too involved. Drawing a pentagram on the floor? Rose petals? A lock of the former lover’s hair? Not likely.

She thought maybe the general love potion would be better. But that was also too involved, as it required stripping naked and rubbing raw meat all over her body. Tina was just not into that sort of thing.

Frustrated now, she proceeded to look at every single spell in the book. Most of them were menial and decidedly worthless to Tina.

She had been seriously contemplating the spell to make herself mildly more attractive to the opposite sex, but that was before she saw …

… exactly what she needed.

What she had needed all her life:

The Balance of Fortune Spell

They who instigate this spell shall have a balance of fortune in their lives. As thus, when something bad happens, something good will happen, henceforth bringing balance into that person’s life. Beware though, for if something beneficial should befall you, something negative of comparable impact will surely occur. As such, it is obvious that the lucky among us need not instigate this spell. This spell is recommended for the perpetually unlucky.

The range of this spell is limited to acts of fate. Deliberate attempts to manipulate the spell will surely backfire. Be forewarned. This is a very powerful spell that is in effect until death.

She read over the steps of the spell. It seemed simple enough.

Not that she really believed it would work, but what, really, did she have to do that was any better?

Besides, it looked like it might be fun.

So she recited the words of the spell then wrote out some gibberish on a sheet of paper. Underneath that, she drew a lopsided picture of a snake eating its own tail, then she set the paper on fire.

She opened the window to let the smoke out, then stood very still and looked within. She didn’t feel any different. Her apartment still looked the same. She went to look in the mirror. She still had the same face. She checked the dial tone on the phone, hoping that Mary might have a sudden, mysterious change of heart and decide to call her. But no call came.

Oh, but it probably hadn’t worked anyway. She was just being silly. Witches’ spells! Sheesh!

She had television to watch.

Tina woke up around one the next afternoon, considered getting started looking for a job, decided to start the next day, and drove down to the local convenience store for some chips and dip.

She came back, sat down, flicked on the TV, opened the bag, and ate a chip. It was stale. She ate another chip. It was burnt and stale. She sighed.

According to the date on the bag, they should have still been fresh. As she opened the can of onion dip to eat her stale chips with, she pondered the exact dynamics of her ill fortune. Did chips become stale because she had picked them or had she picked them because they were stale? What if she had bought two bags or three or.…

Something was strange about the dip … it was good. Very good. Too good, in fact. She double-checked the label. Yes, it was the same brand she always got. Nothing on the label proclaimed a “new, improved flavor.”

Tina sat staring at the can of onion dip for a good five seconds, perplexed.

Then it occurred to her … the spell!

The spell had made the dip exceptionally good to counteract the stale chips!

Of course, it could all just be a coincidence, but Tina had the sneaking suspicion that maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe this was the beginning of a whole new life!

She was elated.

Moments later, Tina was annoyed, for while the dip was certainly excellent, the stale chips lowered the whole gastronomic experience, so that, while on the whole mildly enjoyable, Tina knew that it was not as enjoyable as it could have been with some decent chips, and it was this awareness of unmet potential that Tina found truly vexing. She was so vexed, in fact, that she put the chips away after eating only a few of them.

She hoped the spell would work better than this in the future. She hated to think that she had dedicated her life to such bittersweet accommodations. However, she thought, stale chips and good dip was better than stale chips and bad dip—or so-so dip.

But then again, maybe it was all just coincidence.

The whole matter was starting to confuse Tina, so she decided to watch a lot of television to take her mind off of it.

Mary called during Wheel of Fortune.

“Have you got a job yet?” she asked.

“No, but I’m working on getting one.” She, of course, wasn’t, but that was merely a technicality. She was going to start looking tomorrow.

“And what have you got lined up?”

Tina paused too long.

“Hello?” Mary was mocking her.

“Yeah.”

“What have you got lined up?”

“Um.… Nothing right now, but I expect something to come up.…”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t be with someone who keeps getting fired. I think it’s time to end our relationship. I don’t think I want to see you anymore.” She stopped talking. Tina thought maybe that meant she was supposed to say something.

“I will—”

“And could you quit calling my machine? I don’t want to have to block you.” She sounded so polite it was like she was asking for extra ketchup packets.

Tina sighed and said, “Okay.”

“Thanks.” Now she sounded almost cheerful, as if it had been easier than she had expected.

Her bangles jingled as she set the phone down.

Click, went the phone.

Tina sat there and blinked glumly.

The phone rang.

Mary?

The phone rang again.

Had she changed her mind? Had Mary realized that she really loved her? Tina decided to let the phone ring once more. She didn’t want to seem desperate.

The phone rang once more.

Tina picked it up. “Hello?”

The voice on the phone was not Mary’s. The voice on the phone was female, husky and sultry.

“Is this Chad’s number?” went the husky and sultry voice.

Tina’s heart skipped a beat. This had to be the spell—at least she hoped it was. She had just been dumped by Mary and this was her prize. This was the good dip to her bad chips.

And with this invigorating thought to spur her, Tina behaved in a most uncharacteristic way.

She said, “Um … no. Who is this?” She did not say, “I think you have the wrong number.”

And when the girl purred back, “This is Amanda,” she said, “You have a beautiful voice,” and she was sweet and sincere.

And when the gravel-voiced maiden thanked her and timidly asked her who she was, she sweetly told her.

And with the vigor of one entitled, Tina didn’t stop there, but went on, asking the girl to describe herself, her interests, her personality, and she did so in a way that was humorous and captivating. It turned out the girl was twenty-two years old and 5’5” with short, blonde “wispy” hair and blue eyes. She described herself as a “simple girl,” kind of shy—and a homebody—quite content to sit at home and watch TV or read.

And Tina adored her. They talked for over an hour—talked about a bunch of nothing and they really clicked. Amanda kept giggling and squealing and it was really sexy.

So by the end of the call, Tina was sure that the spell must be working. First exceptional onion dip and now a fantastic girl calling her through a wrong number. Things like that just didn’t happen to her. Happily, she realized that from now on, they would.

So with all the confidence in the world, Tina asked for the date she knew she would get.

Amanda, sexy, adorable Amanda, was hesitating.

“I have a boyfriend right now,” she said.

Tina’s disappointment was even more profound for the fact that this wasn’t supposed to be happening. “I understand,” she said.

Amanda wasn’t speaking.

“Maybe you could call … just to talk,” Tina ventured.

“Maybe.…”

Tina had suddenly grown uncomfortable and really wanted this over quickly, tried not to sound curt as she said, “Well, okay. Goodbye then,” realized she hadn’t succeeded at all, and winced when Amanda mumbled back a timid “Goodbye” and hung up.

Tina was grumpy.

She supposed that being called by an attractive girl after being dumped was better than simply being dumped, but it hadn’t worked out as well as it should have. Now Tina would be constantly hoping she would call, constantly thinking about her with no resolution in sight. At least if Tina had simply been dumped, she could have gone on with her life, but she found the uncertainty of her situation with Amanda to be highly annoying, and now she realized that she had neglected to get the girl’s phone number, so she couldn’t even call her. And Tina had never given Amanda her number either, and since Tina had misdialed, it was uncertain whether Amanda would be able to recall it, and even if she could, why would she?

Tina let out a very long, tortured sigh.

What kind of spell was this?

Tina found a job when she woke up a couple of hours later and walked over to the Burger Despot down the street for a Big Buns Sandwich. It was not as close as she thought it had been, but that was okay, because she had wanted to walk, to think. When she got there, there was a help-wanted banner and Tina filled out an application. The manager looked over the application right there, interviewed her right then, and hired her on the spot.

Tina felt better as she sat down to eat. This job would do for now, until she could find a higher paying one. At least she would be able to pay next month’s rent.

And so, as she ate her sandwich, she enjoyed it, knowing that a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

Yes, she had been lucky to stumble across this job.

lucky.…

Uh oh.

Her heart jumped as she suddenly remembered the spell.

What would be the counteraction? Death? By choking on a sandwich? She took a closer look at her sandwich, spread the fries on the tray, and peered into her soda, almost expecting to find a razor blade nestled somewhere in one of them.

Don’t be silly, she told herself. The point of the spell is balance, remember?

The counteraction would probably not be so serious as to kill her, she thought, trying to comfort herself—but it would probably be quite uncomfortable.

Tina decided right then and there to put an end to the spell. She didn’t like this kind of uncertainty.

She left the food—it probably wouldn’t kill her—but it might—and headed for home. She was in such a hurry that she didn’t notice some ice cubes someone had strewn on the stairs, which she slipped on, twisting her ankle.

Luckily, the manager saw her, because he came out and asked Tina if she was okay. Tina said that, no, she thought she had twisted her ankle rather badly and so she didn’t think she would be able to come in for a few days, at which point the manager said he would arrange for her to work the next few days in the drive-thru window where she would be mostly sitting. Tina, of course, agreed wholeheartedly with this plan.

The walk there had been a contemplative and serene stroll. The walk back was torturous and seemingly endless.

But Tina couldn’t help thinking that she had gotten the better of the spell.

Oh, but the spell had certainly tried. Had tried to make it so that she would be working with a miserably hurting ankle or wouldn’t be able to work at all, but luckily for her, the manager had seen. Ha!

When she finally made it home, she couldn’t decide whether to still go driving around looking for a way to cancel the spell or to stay off her feet for a day or two.

After watching a few music videos, she decided it was better not to risk what might happen in the next few days. She decided to drive down to New Attitudes Books. It was about the only bookstore she could go to that was still open and, besides, they were the only one she knew of that had a witchcraft section (Tina had been there once with Mary.)

However, there was one problem: when she went to start her car, it wouldn’t. Instead, it sputtered, moaned, and spat out blue smoke.

Tina slumped back in the seat. Wearily, she realized what had happened. She had thought she had evaded the spell, but the spell couldn’t be cheated. It had been in control all along. She had gotten the job, which would provide her with enough money to cover rent, but her car had broken down, which most likely would cost so much money to fix that it would put her behind to do so. She certainly couldn’t afford to fix it now, but the kicker was that she had sprained her ankle, which would not have been such a big deal if her car hadn’t broken down, but since it had, that meant that when she went to work she would have to … walk!

She slammed the door and started yelling. “Damn that spell!” and “That damn spell!” and “Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!”

She was so furious that she forgot about her ankle, and stepped particularly hard on it, sending searing waves of pain through her leg.

While she was recovering, she saw that someone had dropped their wallet on the sidewalk outside. As she limped over to pick it up, she thought for a slight moment that she was lucky, but only for a slight moment, for she soon discovered that she had lost her wallet sometime earlier. All of her credit cards and ID had been in that wallet—and thirty dollars she had just taken out as a cash advance from the one credit card that hadn’t been maxed out yet. She looked in the wallet she had found—seven dollars. Seven dollars and a condom and that was it. Great. Tina put her new wallet in her pocket and thought desperately. She had to cancel this spell!

New Attitudes Books was only about a mile away, but with a sprained ankle and a broken car, it might as well have been in France.

Tina went over her options. A cab? No, then she wouldn’t be able to afford a book when she found one. Walk? Too painful. Ride the bus? The nearest bus stop was even farther than the bookstore. Get a ride from someone? Who though? Her family? They weren’t on speaking terms. She didn’t really have any friends. Mary? Absolutely not. Only if she was absolutely desperate, and besides, Mary probably wouldn’t do it anyway.

Tina was coming to realize that her situation was truly dismal.

While pondering just how dismal it was, the big lottery drawing came on the television. Tina picked up her ticket, hoping to win three dollars by matching three of the six numbers. Every little bit would help.

The lottery machine tossed the lottery balls around on a cushion of air, then spat out a 12. Hey, what do you know, that was a match. Just two more numbers to match, and she’d win three dollars. The second number was 31. That matched too! The third number was 43. A match! She had just won three dollars. The fourth number, 29, also matched! Tina could hardly believe it. Her hands were shaking as the next number, 17, matched too. She was holding her breath as she waited for the last number: “And the sixth and final number for an estimated ten million dollars … “ proclaimed the announcer, “is twenty-three!”

Tina stared at the ticket.…

“I’m rich! I’m rich! I’m rich! I’m rich! I’m rich! I’m rich! I’m rich!” Tina was jumping up and down, which, of course, caused searing, throbbing pain in her ankle, but she kept doing it.

She couldn’t believe it! She, Tina, who had been unlucky all her life was now a millionaire!

She would never have to work again!

She was set for life!

for life.…

The spell!

Tina felt fear. Pure, primal, gut-wrenching, heart-pounding fear.

She felt dizzy. She sat down. She decided she didn’t have time to sit around. She had to cancel that spell!

She had told herself she wouldn’t call Mary again unless she was desperate. Well, now she was.

Her hand shook as she dialed Mary’s number on the pay phone. Mary picked up on the second ring. It seemed to take forever.

“Hello?”

“Mary, I have an emergency and I really need your help!”

Mary seemed unconcerned. “This isn’t 911. I thought I told you not to call me anymore.”

“Listen, I tried one of your witches’ spells and now I have to cancel it. How do I cancel it?”

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter, because none of it’s real anyway. Now if you’re done, I’ve got better things to do.”

Tina was starting to hyperventilate. “Please, I’m serious. You really don’t know how to cancel a spell?”

“No! Now, will you go!”

Tina was hoping that appealing to her sympathy might work. “Look, will you do me a favor and drive me to New Attitudes Books. It’s about to close, and my car’s broken and I sprained my ankle and it’s real important I get there.”

“So hop.”

Click.

The next minute saw Tina frantically hopping and limping down the street with the seven dollars from her new wallet, the seventy-six cents she had managed to quickly scrounge up, and an uncashed lottery ticket worth ten million dollars. Ironic, she thought, that when she got to the store, she probably wouldn’t be able to afford anything.

She was prepared to steal.

She passed Birch Street. There was still quite a distance to go and the pain in her ankle was excruciating.

Please be open, she was thinking. Please, please, please be open.

Tina just knew something terrible would happen if she didn’t get to the store in time and cancel the spell.

Then as she turned the corner of a house, she could suddenly see, in the distance, dark billowing storm clouds churning their way in her direction.

This was not good. This was not good at all.

Then she saw a streak of lightning, but it was far off, too far off even to be heard.

The store was about ten blocks away. She could probably beat the storm if she ran.

She tried—felt her leg go limp from the sharp pain, refuse to take on the weight.

Dammit!

She resumed a fast walk—actually it was more of a hop-skip.

Ouch! Dammit! Dammit! Dammit all!

The strong wind was hard to maneuver, made the whole experience more of an ordeal on her ankle.

And the storm was growing ever closer, filling the sky with white, jagged streaks, the thunder growing louder and louder.

She was limping more now, virtually hopping. Frantic, heart racing, sweating in the humid air, the store was in sight now, with the lights on and people inside and she knew she would beat the storm, would maybe be able to cancel the spell before the spell decided to balance things out.

Tina could not remember the last time she cried, but she was crying then. The pain was horrendous. She was crying for the pain in her ankle and she was crying for herself—her poor self.

Life had never been good to her—it had been dirty. The spell had seemed a savior, but it had only been a curse in disguise—a dark joke.

Ouch! Dammit!

And nothing good ever happened to her. How come nothing good ever happened to her?

She was almost there. She just had to cross the parking lot. There were only a few cars, so she could cut through easily.

She was almost there.

She was almost there.

Suddenly, Tina stopped.

She was experiencing a very peculiar sensation.

She felt kind of tingly and … fuzzy.

Puzzled, she reached up to touch her hair. It was standing on end.

She looked up and for a brief moment she could have sworn she could see a pair of beautiful green eyes floating amongst the raging clouds.…

Tina opened her eyes to someone kissing her. No, not kissing her, giving her mouth-to-mouth.

Tina coughed and the person sat up. Tina was on her back and she felt numb, could smell something burning. She turned her head to see that the person was a girl. The lamp behind her surrounded her with an aura of light, making her look like an angel, an angel against darkened clouds—the storm had still not arrived, but it would soon. Tina studied the girl’s face: short blonde hair rustling in the wind, a cute button nose, pouty, full lips. Her eyes, worriedly searching Tina’s face, were large and blue. She was gorgeous.

“Just stay still,” the girl was saying, her voice a sexy whiskey-voice. “I sent someone for help.” Her ample chest was rising and falling heavily. “You were hit by lightning,” she explained, mistaking Tina’s adoration for confusion. “When I got to you, your heart had stopped and you weren’t breathing. I started CPR.” The girl hesitated, bit her lip. “For a while there, you were dead.”

Dead?

Tina smiled. The gorgeous girl gave her a perplexed look. The book had said the spell lasted until death. Maybe.…

Tina reached clumsily into her pocket, her arm still numb, and pulled out the lottery ticket. All the numbers were intact. It wasn’t even burnt.

The gorgeous girl was looking on confusedly with big puppy eyes.

Tina had a hunch, and stared into the girl’s eyes.

“What’s your name?” Tina asked her.

“Amanda.” Bingo.

“And your boyfriend?”

“We just broke up,” she answered warily, obviously flustered.

Tina couldn’t help but grin and gaze longingly into her eyes—eyes filled with concern and fear and … so beautiful. For a moment their gazes locked, Amanda taking a moment too long to look away.

Amanda peered timidly back at Tina and gave her a warm, genuine smile. “You know, you’re very lucky.”

For the first time in her life, Tina realized that, yes, she was.

It started to rain … hard.

Chapter 24

Autumn

Work was as it always was. Loneliness.

Day after day of adjusting bras and thongs.

Mary’s plight.

Fending off groping tendrils of hands.

And that afternoon, her boss had said … she didn’t want to remember what he’d said.…

… he’d said, “You could be prettier.”

That’s what she got for allowing herself to be there—she was like an object on display, like a mannequin in a store window to be gazed upon and adored—and since she was addicted to that feeling, she always came back.

She pushed out through the doors of the Austin Showplace with a frown, stepping into the cool air outside.

That day as Mary left work, there was an innocent-looking little girl sitting against the other building. The little girl sat quiet. Peering out at the world through auburn bangs. The wind ruffled them as she sat, resting her arms on her knees.

The little girl said, “It’s coming, you know.”

Mary didn’t know what she meant.

The little girl said, “The ritual.”

Mary nodded. She’d heard vague murmurings, but knew only that it was something done in solitude, at night—she’d heard that it was a way to let Him taste your yearning, a way to call Him.

The little girl looked down at the broken bottle on the ground next to her. The wind made her hair flop over her face. She tucked it behind her ear. “Perhaps we can stop it.”

Mary looked at her, questioning.

“The war they have made for us.”

She nodded.

There were so many wars. So many wars of different kinds.

The little girl studied her face.

Mary said, “It’s you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s Alicia.”

“You’ve changed.”

“And you’ve become corrupted.”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad.”

There was a silence between them.

Alicia said, “Life is a game of musical chairs, Mary.”

Mary looked at her.

The little girl smiled at her with her eyes. “I will speak to you tomorrow.”

The next day.

Endless hours of lap dances and strange men looking up between her thighs and leering at her violet hair.

As she pushed out through the doors, the wind touched at her face like fingertips.

It threw her into a thoughtful daze. She’d known a dozen different caresses from dozens of fingertips. At times, she’d licked at them in sorrow, as her tears trembled and fell. But she could tell that it was all becoming forgotten.

Alicia said, “Have you ever thought about crushed flowers? To me, crushed flowers are the symbol. They are the beauty we can’t let go, preserved in afterwards. They are ruins.”

“You are a very thoughtful little girl.”

The little girl Alicia smiled and kissed her with her eyes. “I was before. The pillowtalk has made me more so. Soon, though, the pillowtalk will make it all mean nothing.”

That night as she lay in bed, she felt something. It was a tingling—through her arms, through her legs, in her chest—she knew that soon he would arrive—and the pillowtalk is the way that you call him.

At work the next day, she asked Candy about him. With faraway looks, she said:

“In him, I am art. In him, I am beauty and feeling.”

When she asked Robin, she sighed and said:

“He is the warmth of floating caresses.”

When she asked everyone else, they said:

“He is swirling tenderness.”

“He is the soft whispers of lovers, and fingertip kisses.”

“He is the entrails of white lace … and purple.”

There was a way of doing it, and she learned that way.

Alicia said, “The pillowtalk has changed things. Sometimes it’s hard to tell if you’re in a dream or the real world. Nothing really means anything anymore, and that is its meaning. Tomorrow, the war they have made will be forgotten.”

That night, she performed the pillowtalk for the first time.

He came to her and wrapped around her.

hello again my beautiful angel. hello, sweety.

so soft, so gentle.

hello, darling.

It was like the seduction of a dream, like ribbons intertwining and gentle warmth licking the ridges of her ribs.

He was the gentle licking at her earlobe.

He was fingertips, tracing curves.

And too many memories.

In him, they were forgotten.

He saw all her flaws, and it was okay.

She opened herself and he knew everything.

The next day.

Her breasts were sore from squeezing them.

She pushed out through the doors again and stepped out.

The wind blew cool against her, held her face like hands and licked at her lips.

A clattering circle of leaves rose up and swarmed like vultures.

He was in her now. She carried him with her everywhere now.

Alicia was there again. She smiled and had dimples, and said, “Tomorrow, I will let you buy me ice cream.” She giggled and looked up.

Mary looked down into her pouty little face. She couldn’t help imitating it. She looked into her eyes. The big, wide, innocent eyes of a child. Saw herself reflected in the green iris. She saw herself smile—she loved those eyes.

She held her arms out and the little girl Alicia held out hers’. She pulled the little girl into her body and wrapped her arms around her, feeling her little body pressed so tight against her.

And that moment became a gift from him. The leaves swirled, then in a blurred line, cascaded into them—going into them, spearing them, through them, then out again.

The little girl felt warm.

He came to her.

Here was someone who would love her and never leave her.

encompassing, engulfing.

devouring her and intermingling.

hello, beautiful—

so soft, so gentle.

He was surrounding her, filling her,

gliding slowly along the edges of her ribs,

licking softly the ridges of her fingertips.

hello, sweety—

and he was arms around her, holding, warm, until each morning when she awoke.

Chapter 25

Nipples On Mannequins

Lotus sighed and ran his fingers through his hair as he walked.

He tried to stop thinking, tried to stop dwelling on the stupidity and evil of humanity. What was the point, anyway? It only made his stomach hurt.

He really hated thinking.

blah blah blah step step step blah blah blah

He looked down and checked his boots as he stepped. Yep, they were tied. He casually checked his fly. Zipped. His whole entire life he had never gone out unzipped, but he knew if he ever stopped checking, that would be when it would happen. It was the nature of reality. It was a representation of the malevolent universe in microcosm.

His jaw tightened. Dammit. He had to stop thinking.

blah blah blah step step step

His mind wandered. Now he was staring at his crotch again, staring at the bulge of his Glorious Phallus, his

~~MAGNIFICENT MANMEAT~~ that all the girls wanted inside of them.

He shivered and squinted his eyes against the wind. He had just left his apartment, but his hands and ears were already numb from the cold.

… And his scars were aching. He didn’t know why. He could feel the tightness on the scar down the center of his chest and the smaller scar at his side. They were his transplant scars from when he’d been a baby. He’d been born a twin, and at birth, there’d been complications—both of his twin sister’s lungs collapsed and both of Lotus’ kidneys failed … so the doctors had transplanted one of Lotus’ lungs to his sister and one of his sister’s kidneys to him. When they were teenagers they’d both run away from home. He hadn’t seen his sister in over eight years. All that remained were the scars, faded and much smaller now on his body.…

Austin shouldn’t be this fucking cold, he thought, as a shiver shot through his body. He blew out a breath of air and watched it float in front of him.

There were some other people walking toward him on the sidewalk—four guys and a girl, all walking separately. He quickly looked them over—behind them was the street he was walking to, a section of Guadalupe Street they called the Drag.

For some reason, a few minutes ago, he had felt an urge to walk to the Drag. He didn’t know why. He often liked to walk around, to draw the adoring gazes from girls, the hateful scowls from guys. He loved reactions of any kind, any kind of acknowledgment that his presence made some sort of impact. But this was different. It had been more than a simple desire to be seen, it had been a need to go to the street—he didn’t know why.

It was just a little farther.…

The girl was about to pass him. She had an adorably cute face with bobbed, brown hair, wearing blue jeans and a black pea coat.

He admired her.…

Her eyes were of a beauteous, melting blue,

Like a dark violet bathed in quivering dew;

Her lips seemed made for kisses and soft sighs,

And he ached ached ached to slip between her thighs.

He glanced at her chest, trying not to stare too long. The bulky jacket obscured her breasts somewhat, but it was clear that she was ample.

mmmm soft.

As they walked closer, he could feel her energy coming off of her. He glanced at her furtively, wondering if his energy would work.…

She glanced sideways and smiled at him as she passed.

His energy had worked. He called it, simply, the “energy”—many people would probably use the term, “psychic powers,” but it was different from how most people thought of that term, for the energy was inherently a power of sexual attraction.

He prepared mentally for walking out onto the Drag, prepared for the great conglomeration of energy.

He turned the corner onto the Drag.…

.… and walked into a glorious sea of moving human female bodies, interspersed with male bodies. Girls. Girls of all shapes and sizes and hair colors. All those sweet pairs of breasts bouncing bouncing with each step.

He sighed. It was hard being a guy. So many things on so many girls he’d never get to touch. It was torture.

He walked along the sidewalk, hoping to get noticed. This was the Drag, a section of Guadalupe Street that ran alongside the University of Texas—essentially a sidewalk for storefront after storefront—bookstores and clothing stores and food and coffee. A street for youth cultures galore and human peacocks—on this street he fit in in his nonconvention. Of course, some didn’t see the beauty of free expression. But they were outnumbered here. The Drag, a sidewalk of uneasy truce, and cease-fire. Most of the time.

On the left of the sidewalk, cars whizzed by, and to the left of that, was the University of Texas, where young people filled their minds with all manner of inane and influential thoughts.

Some fascist, utterly-forgettable, former-high-school-athlete frat-boi jackass was scowling at him. He’d had his share of trouble with the frat-bois. Most of them behaved themselves, but unfortunately, there was a portion of them that did not, a portion who were no more than criminals and thugs belonging more in a prison than in a college. He’d gotten into two fights with frat-bois—and once he’d phoned in the license plate number of a truckfull of them who’d been throwing beer bottles at him. But he had better things to do than worry about every moron who hated him.

Whatever.

As he walked, he looked out at all the people. People coming out of storefronts. People carrying cups of coffee with those plastic lids on them. People adjusting their backpacks. People walking with blank expressions. People with thoughtful expressions. People talking to the person next to them. All of them moving, walking, breathing, with steam coming out of their mouths and noses.

He looked to his left, across the street, where the water fountains and trees were and even more people, entering or exiting the many surrounding buildings of the university, or simply sitting around, talking, reading, thinking.

He looked ahead.

A blonde girl wearing a gray sweatshirt that said, “TEXAS” was walking toward him—she turned her head to look at him.

She stared into his eyes as she walked, her mouth open with lust, the steam coming out in panting breaths.

As she walked, she put her hands to the bottom of her sweatshirt and lifted it up—underneath, a burgundy lace bra hugged her beautiful, round breasts, the two bumps of her nipples swelling from the sudden cold.

He admired the lusty rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, staring into the curved gap between her jiggling breasts, yearning to see them jiggling unrestrained, picturing in his mind’s eye those two lily-white globes, blue-veined, with rosebuds as their adornment, two pale-red rosebuds blooming involuntarily beneath his gaze, teased out of their gentle modesty by the taunting offense of the crisp air.…

They passed each other, and the enchantment of her bosom was broken.

He shook his head to snap out of it, then felt his heart begin to race in panic.

He had to get off this street.

He could feel it. There was at least one other person here in this crowd with strong energy, and it was beginning to combine and interact with his energy as well as the energy of all the people in the crowd.

In large crowds, peoples’ energy began to combine and resonate, but usually it was too diluted to create any noticeable effects. However, if there was a particularly strong person in the crowd—like Lotus—all the energy became focused and directed toward that person—they’d in effect become the lust object of the group. Usually it only meant that he’d get a lot of glances and lusty looks from girls, but the more people there were, the more total energy there was, and if there was another strong person in the crowd, the combined energy would be even greater—the glances would become even more lusty and lewd—girls might begin to make outright passes … or display for him—sometimes he would even begin to read the thoughts coming off of people, and they’d come blaring through, brimming with lust—in rare instances the energy could even begin to affect nearby objects, making them shake or lift up into the air.

He could sense the other person/s moving closer. If they got too close, their energies would combine and things could quickly spiral out of control.

It had happened once before.… It had been a cute blond at the laundromat with hips and ponytail that both went swishy, swishy. They’d been drawn together from across the room, had immediately left together and checked into the nearest motel.

And they’d fucked in a frenzy, for hours, and the fucking only made their energy combine and resonate outward, drawing people in. Girl after girl had come to him, presenting themselves to him in long lines on hands and knees, glistening wet in their excitement. That day, he’d slid inside more women than most men did in a lifetime. And she’d taken man after man inside of her, sometimes two at a time, unable to feed the hunger between her legs. They’d fucked until they were raw and sore, desperate to stop, and finally, they’d had to be forcibly separated.

He had been powerless over his lust.…

He shuddered. He had to get off the street.

But the energy was drawing him. He couldn’t stop.

Dammit!

His eyes shifted to a girl walking toward him.

She was long and slender, one of the body types he especially lusted for—her hair was long and raven-black, contrasting cutely with her pale face.

mmmmmmm black-haired girl.

She was wearing a black leather jacket, obscuring the svelte, lean torso he imagined underneath—on her legs, black tights curved over her, gently, tenderly cupping in-between, molding softly to the inverted triangle of her girlness.

He was entranced, watching her.…

She walked like the night, and her long raven-tresses swayed to the rhythm of her hips and the melody between her thighs.

Shyly, he met her eyes, felt the surge through his body as their eyes pinged together.

It was her. She was the one.

She was looking at him, searching his face, her expression a mixture of fear and, strangely, pleasure.

He stared into her green eyes, lingering in them, then suddenly turned his head to the right to look at the mannequin in the store window. It almost felt like the mannequin was staring at him.… He looked into its green eyes, searching, but they were lifeless.…

The mannequin also had long, black hair. His eyes roved over its face. The female face of the mannequin was frozen in a far-away expression, with mouth held sensuously open.

He jerked in surprise.…

.… it was the same girl!—the same features, the same body, except in white plastic—his eyes moved down to its chest, to her small braless breasts clung to by the white tank top she wore. He stared at her two cute little breasts, lusting for them, his eyes drawn to the middle of each mound, where the round edges of her nipples poked into her shirt. His eyes continued to move over her, admiring her pale pink-tipped hands, lustily gliding over the slender curves of her body as if it was living flesh … staring at the gap between her thighs.…

She stood, on display, unashamed, for everyone’s perusal.

mmmmmmm

He realized he wasn’t paying attention to where he was walking and shifted his eyes ahead again, immediately locking into the girl’s face, into her eyes again.

As he walked closer, he shuddered.

Oh, God.…

He couldn’t stop walking toward her. It was the energy, drawing them together, and it was beyond his control. He felt his eyes narrow as his mind shifted into lust. He felt his penis begin to tingle, swelling against the inside of his pants.

And he could feel the energy between them combining, licking at each other, strengthening as they drew closer.

His penis was completely hard now, throbbing and pulsing, straining at the fabric of his tight jeans, aching to be inside of her.

Then suddenly, all at once, the entire crowd stopped walking.

Lotus had no choice but to stop as well. He gazed out at the mass of people—everyone was standing perfectly still—the silence was disturbing.

Then all at once, they all started turning in place, making a massive shuffling sound, then they stopped and were still again.

He looked around—all of the girls looked back at him with faces of pure lust—all the guys stared at the black-haired girl and bulged inside their pants.

For a moment, everything was quiet again.

Then, a few girls lowered their heads and put their hands to their jackets, then a few more did, fumbling with their zippers and buttons, then more were doing it, making the sounds of tinkling and fidgeting, the sound growing louder, and then they all were unzipping and unbuttoning, as the fidgeting grew into a roar, and the first to open their jackets were putting their hands to the bottom of their shirts, then a few more were doing it, as they began lifting their shirts, then more were doing it, then more, until there was a sudden massive wave of lifting shirts, and, as if winter had suddenly given way to spring, bras of numerous colors popped into sudden view, like a garden of breasts blooming before him.

He began to tremble as he felt all of the energy coming off of all the people, and coming off of the black-haired girl, swirling around him. He gazed out at all the people, all the girls with their shirts lifted and lust on their faces, here and there a few without bras, with breasts hanging free and pink and red nipples stiff in the cold air.

Beneath his feet, the ground felt like it was humming. Bits of trash rose up into the air and began to swirl.

Then a gust of cold wind blew through the crowd, licking at peoples’ hair and clothes and almost as one, a shiver went through the crowd.

He looked to the mannequin in the store window.

He looked over at the black-haired girl.

She lowered her head and stared at him with droopy, lusty eyes, locking her gaze with his.

Her jaw went slack, her tongue slid out and the round steel tip of her tongue ring flicked out and slowly rolled over her lip, pressing moistly into the soft flesh.

He looked back to the mannequin, mesmerized by it, moving his eyes up and down her, over her breasts, between her legs.…

Then, impossibly, the mannequin … moved … its head turned slowly and, with frozen face and unblinking eyes, looked right at him. It shifted position, searching for balance, then its arms and legs began to move—

It ran and crashed through the window, throwing glass onto the sidewalk and into bystanders. It landed and crouched, then stood. Lotus’ eyes were drawn to her chest. He watched in amazement as the mannequin’s nipples seemed to swell in the cold air as she walked toward him.

Then suddenly the mannequin’s thoughts came blaring into his mind:

love me love me love you i want to love you

He watched, frozen, as the mannequin tilted its head and leaned in … to kiss him. He pressed his lips to the cool plastic, onto unmoving lips. The mannequin felt cold, unalive. The face of the mannequin pulled away, then the mannequin shook its head.

sad sad love no love

He was gazing at her with a dazed expression, mesmerized by the beautiful plastic face. The mannequin tenderly placed its hand on his shoulder and tilted its head.

no good so sad no love

Lotus looked deep into the unblinking green eyes. The mannequin slid its hand on Lotus’ shoulder, so that her hand rested against his back. Then with her other hand, the mannequin punched through Lotus’ chest.

Lotus’ body jolted from the impact, then became still, his eyes searching in a mixture of confusion and calm at the mannequin’s unresponsive face, before the eyes closed and the head slumped.

The black-haired girl’s name was Jasmine.

She felt a surge through her body as Lotus was killed, felt the twitching between her legs and she came, breathing in short, broken huffs, shuddering, fighting to stand, her head rolled and she closed her eyes—and when she opened them and looked forward again, the mannequin was standing on her right side, holding Lotus’ body over its head beside a street sign. It took a step back, then a step forward and slammed the body’s neck against the edge of the sign. The two segments snapped apart, spitting blood onto the sidewalk and bystanders. The body flung out of the mannequin’s grasp and twirled into some guy in an orange jacket, rolled on the ground, then lay still on the sidewalk.

The mannequin stood holding the head by the hair, as the bottom drooled red. Then the mannequin grabbed her own head by the hair and started to tug on it, until it slid off of the steel rod that held it in place. She dropped her head to the ground, brought Lotus’ head up, positioned it, and pressed it onto the rod.

The head’s eyes widened in sudden awareness, then with a dazed expression, it slowly looked down at the headless body lying on the ground, and tilted its head.

Jasmine could read the mannequin’s thoughts as it stared at the body:

love me love me love me

Its eyes seemed to travel down on the body, then lingered on the bulge between its legs—the mannequin knelt … its fused fingers clumsily unzipped the jeans and pulled them down—the still-erect boi-rod popped up—the mannequin gripped Lotus’ hot man-meat, slowly moving its hand up and down against it. It stood up, eyes transfixed by the body’s stiff penis.

fuck love fuck fuck you love me fuck me

Its hands went to the top of its jeans, unbuttoned and unzipped them, then pulled them down on its body, revealing the white, plastic facsimile of female hips, slender and sexy, but hairless and smooth in-between. It stepped out of the jeans, walked over to the body, then stood over it with one leg to each side of the body, then slowly lowered itself down onto the stiff penis. Jasmine watched as the mannequin jostled up and down, humping, but after a few moments, it frowned and stopped. It leaned forward and looked between its legs at their meeting crotches, then thought for a moment. It shifted forward more, moving the penis further along its body—to between the two curves of her bottom—and moved up and down again. It stopped and frowned.

She watched as the mannequin slipped its hand between its legs, moving it back and forward, searching, but Jasmine knew the search would be futile, for everything was smooth down there. Lotus’ face looked sad and his mouth formed into a frown. Then, as if realizing it was there for the first time, it brought its hand to its mouth and experimentally formed its lips into an O. It traced the shape with its fingers, then the face grinned. It kneeled, lowering its mouth to the body’s penis, then eagerly put its lips around it and enthusiastically sucked, sliding up and down along it, twisting against it with fused fingers.

Then it stopped, as a look of disappointment came over Lotus’ face. It shook its head, teary-eyed.

no love no fuck no love

It kneeled there, sad for a while, then turned to look at Jasmine. The mannequin stood, then walked over to her. Its nipples were erect, pointing at her as it walked. The mannequin looked down at its own chest, then put its hands to the bottom of its shirt and began to lift it up—the bottom edge of the shirt crawled up on its body, showing flat white plastic stomach with plastic belly button, then revealing plastic breasts … with two pink circles of real flesh.

Jasmine’s eyes opened wide as she looked at them. She felt her heart begin to race.

The mannequin gestured towards Jasmine’s chest with its fused fingers, at her breasts—

off off to see

Jasmine brought her hand up to her zipper and unzipped. She wore a plain, black long-sleeved shirt underneath. Her breasts were so small that she usually didn’t wear a bra. She put her hands to the bottom of her shirt and lifted it up. Her breasts were the same size and shape as the mannequin’s, but with no round circles—she only had two scars. She had other scars as well, from when she’d been a baby—one on her chest and one at her side. She looked to see if the mannequin had a matching scar on its chest, but it didn’t.

The nipples on the mannequin were Jasmine’s. She’d sold them. The people had wanted them because Jasmine was a person with a strong amount of energy. The energy emanated from every part of a person’s body, but was concentrated in the sexual parts. They’d offered her 10,000 dollars for her nipples—they were going to put them on a mannequin, to attract customers, to sell clothing. She’d needed the money to feed her addiction to purple lotus.

She’d missed them, missed seeing them, missed the sensations that they brought. She wanted to touch them—she stared at them, they were so beautifully hard, they were so beautiful, she wanted to touch them, she wanted to taste them, she’d never even tasted them. She wanted to make love to them. In a daze, she stared.

She pressed her pink-tipped finger to one of them, putting pink to pink, softly caressing. Lotus’ face showed pleasure, and he bit his lip.

The mannequin lowered her shirt and looked between Jasmine’s legs. It looked between its own legs then pointed at Jasmine’s crotch. Without thinking, Jasmine unzipped her jeans and pulled them down—underneath she wore nothing—she felt the cold air between her legs as she revealed her pink petals, shaven smooth, and the silver ring dangling from her pearl.

The head of Lotus stared between her legs, then between its own legs and looked sadly into Jasmine’s eyes.

It slipped its hand between her legs—it felt cold against the delicate flesh.

She whimpered and bit her lip. Between her legs, it felt like she was humming.

beautiful beautiful

It tilted its head and smiled softly, looked deeply into Jasmine’s eyes.

His green eyes were so gorgeous, staring into her, leering into her soul. And she was mesmerized by the fluttering of his lashes and beckoned by the dance in his eyes. She looked back at him with longing.

He had eyes that made her want to be frail.

The mannequin reached and touched tenderly at her lips, tracing with its cold plastic fingers. A smile appeared on Lotus’ face, then it leaned in, licking at her mouth.

They pressed their lips together softly.

The thoughts came through strong, like cold electricity:

love love finally love

They stepped away from the girls with their shirts held up, from the bois with their bulging crotches, stepped away from all the people standing still, like mannequins, like a standing ovation, watching their exit.

As the wind howled cold over them, hand in hand, they walked away.

Chapter 26

As Pure as the Driven Snow

“It never snows in Austin.” That was the common phrase that everyone said.

Of course, it had snowed two years ago, over Christmas, but no one really liked to talk about it—it had been a bad Christmas that year.

And now there was another snowstorm coming to Austin.

It shouldn’t have been happening at all. It was too early in the season, and besides, it never snows in Austin. But the snow probably wouldn’t even stick—the ground would be so warm that the snow would melt immediately. There was no need to worry. It was just something out of the ordinary, something to talk about.

But in the mind of a child, the coming of snow always brings the fantasy of school being cancelled.

Katie sat anxiously in her desk, unable to stop herself from constantly glancing out the window.

She was excited. She had never ever seen snow her entire life, never. She was nine years old and had only seen snow on television. People said that it had snowed in Austin two years ago, but that was when she was living in California, before Mom got remarried and moved to Austin.

So at this moment, Katie was only thinking of snow.

She couldn’t stop fidgeting in her seat.

She sat through the math lesson, scrunching her face up, trying to concentrate, but her mind was on soft, powdery, ready-for-snowbally snow! She imagined what she would do. She would throw snowballs at her friends, she would make a snowman—that definitely was what she wanted to do the most, was make a snowman.

She was writing in her notebook while Misses Hile was working out a problem on the board and in a few minutes, the paper said, “sno sno i luv sno don’t you know i lurv sno snooooooo sno snooooooo.” She liked to spell it, “S-N-O”—she thought it looked and sounded cuter that way and of course when she wrote it that way in class, she always got criticized for it, which made her want to do it even more. She wondered what sno tasted like … a boy named Johnny had been teasing her, saying she liked to eat yellow sno … she wondered what that meant. How could—

“Katie! Pay attention!” Misses Hile shouted.

“Yes, Misses Hile.”

Katie tried to focus.

But then, there in the window.…

There it was, the first snowflake, floating down like a feather from a bird. The glorious, beautiful first snowflake.

“Sno!” she cried in glee and one of her huge grins stretched uncontrollably across her face.

“Katie!” Misses Hile shouted, as the class erupted into giggles and all the children’s grinning faces turned to look out the window.

All the longing in the world was in that storm, like soft sighs against dark pillows, like all the little girl rituals done at night in girls’ bedrooms, like scribbled hearts and the hope that the object of their desire would hear them in his dreams, to bring that most elusive of things—as if love was an entity, a cloud of snowflakes slowly rolling into one’s life, unconnected to a person, that flitted about like a nest of butterflies, or a swarm of moths.

Swirling whiteness.

It came in as a whisper, licking gently at collars, blowing teasingly at the ends of hair. It came as a soft moan, growing louder with each passing hour, as the sun grew less and less visible.

It started out gentle and soft.…

But just as in life, the love of the storm slowly became resentment, vengeful, hateful—it obliterated what it had once softly blanketed, leaving its mark wherever it could, filling the sky with white, swirling fury.

The wind howled all around the outside of the school building that Katie was sitting in. It covered the parking lot with white, weighed down the branches of the trees, and filled the air with cold, blinding snowflakes.

And all the kids yearned to play in it.

Out in the playground, a kid named Johnny, one of the meanest bullies in the school, had already snuck out of class to swing during the storm—the swings seemed almost to be inhabited by furious ghosts as they twisted and jerked and Johnny laughed and howled in manic glee.

The harshness of the storm came as a surprise to the school faculty members. The snow was not melting as it had been expected to. The snow was sticking, covering the roads, making sidewalks slick, and the principal made the decision to send the kids home early.

Katie sat in her desk, with her chin resting in her hand, looking out the window, eyes widening at the sight of it—she was in awe of its great, fluffy whiteness. She was excited that school was being let out early. She couldn’t wait to feel it in her hands, and she was trembling with excitement, humming under her breath, “Snoooooooooo.”

The storm was whistling through the edges of the windows.

Katie almost thought she could hear a voice whispering to her. She turned her ear toward the window. What was the storm saying? It was saying, “Are you … as pure as the driven snow?”

She didn’t really know what to make of it—maybe she was just imagining—and she didn’t even know what “driven snow” was.

Misses Hile looked frazzled as she dismissed the class—she kept rubbing her eyebrow. “Now, everyone you be careful out there! Watch for ice!”

Katie giggled and grabbed her pink coat and backpack and as she skipped toward the door with the crowd of kids, shouted, “Gotta go! Cuz there’s snow!”

The cold air suddenly flowed over her face and shocked her into a sudden excited state.

And she was dancing in the schoolyard like a drunken ballerina trapped inside a snoglobe—spinning beautiful, her limbs gracefully cutting through the icy air, her breathing quickening, blowing tufts of steam from pouty lips.

As she was twirling past the playground, the boy named Johnny, who had snuck out of class to swing, was hanging from the swing set with the chains of the swing wrapped around his neck—his limp, red-faced body was swaying and twisting in the wind, as two teachers stood dumbly watching him, trying to decide what to do.

And as the other teachers slowly gathered around the swinging body, they suddenly forgot about the rest of the children. All the students were dancing and giggling—some were making snowballs and throwing them in the air and bopping them with the top of their heads, others were manically lying on their backs, making snow angels, and others were simply rolling around in the snow and diving into it. And slowly, they were wandering further away from the school, the school buses were abandoned, the children were simply wandering away.…

And Katie was spinning, the swirling white snowflakes of the air surrounding her, almost hugging her, and she was dancing, making crunching noises with her feet and she was looking up, her arms held out and she couldn’t even see the sun, everything was a humming pure shade of glowing white, cold, sterile, yet loving. Everything else didn’t matter. She wanted to lose herself in its encompassing whiteness and become pure—as pure as the driven snow.

Mary was sitting in front of the mirror in the dressing room of the Austin Showplace, waiting to go on stage. She was brushing her long, violet-colored hair, when one of her fellow strippers named Magenta—who was a complete bitch—came in, saying, “Oh my god, it’s snowing like hell out there!” She was blowing on her hands. “Damn, my hands are fucking freezing! I can hardly move them, and I have to go on stage next!” Then Magenta glared at Mary, trying to provoke her, but Mary was too worried about Katie, her stepsister. How was Katie going to get home from school? Mary’s mind filled immediately with all sorts of imagined tragedies like bus crashes and bone-breaking tumbles on patches of ice.

Mary fidgeted in her purse, brought out her cell phone and dialed the number for Katie’s cell phone.

Katie answered, “Sno, don’tcha know!” It was hard to hear her, because she seemed to be speaking over the howling of the storm.

Mary fought hard to keep from sounding hysterical. “Katie, are you okay? Where are you?”

The little girl’s voice was a crackle, “I’m ho ho hoooooome … you ho.”

“Katie! You don’t talk to me like that! Is anyone watching you?”

“Nope. Is anyone watching you? What color thong do you have on?”

“Look, I’m coming over, okay? You just go inside and don’t get into trouble, okay?”

“Whatever.”

“You go inside okay?”

“Whatever.”

“Stay warm. I’ll come and cook for you, okay?”

“You got it, dude.”

Mary hung up the phone. The thong she was wearing was blue, with matching pasties.

She quickly got dressed. She wasn’t going to strip this afternoon. She had to drive to Dad’s house—the house he had kicked her out of—where Katie lived. She hoped she wouldn’t get stuck in the snow.

As she walked toward the door, she thought she heard someone behind her whisper, “Are you … as pure as the driven snow?” She quickly turned around, glaring, but no one was there.

Then as she was pushing on the door, she heard a shrill scream and she looked onstage. Magenta had been holding herself upside down on the pole and had slipped and landed on her head. She lay screaming on the stage with her neck at a bizarre angle … but her body wasn’t moving at all.

Mary went outside into the storm. The cold wind quickly cut into her flimsy trench coat. She almost slipped in the parking lot as she clumsily made her way to her SUV.

With relief, she opened the door of her SUV, started the engine and turned on the heat.

She hoped she could make it to the house without getting stuck.

It was only a few miles, she thought.

She turned on the radio and started driving. It was in the middle of that song by that rapper, 2BaD, his gravelly voice blaring, “Sit next to me and I’ll grab your seat! Smack up your face while you grind my meat!”

She was getting into it. 2BaD was so sexy … so … bad.

But suddenly the song cut off.

There was only silence.

She felt a sudden twinge of panic.

Was the problem with the station or her radio?

She waited expectantly for the station to come back on.…

Then a different song started up.

The voice was high—ethereal—androgynous—many would say it was too high to be allowed … for a man.

But to Mary, it was beautiful.

So beautiful, it made her teary-eyed.

The man’s voice was singing:

I have two, two eyes to look at you,

And two, two hands to hold.

But I have two, two tears I shed for you,

For my secret love, untold.

She felt her eyes welling up. How sweet. She wished that someone would love her like that.

Brad lay listening to the radio on his bed. He held two purple tablets in his hand, which he popped into his mouth. He reached over and grabbed the beer off his nightstand.

He was thinking about Mary again.

He thought about her all the time.

He admitted he was even obsessed with her.

It had started with a mild infatuation a long time ago, then it had progressed, but it had all been her fault. She had led him on, flaunted her stuff in front of him. He knew that now she was even a stripper at the Austin Showplace, showing her tits to every jackoff who entered the place.

Once, a long time ago, Mary had even liked him a little. Now she wouldn’t even look at him, just like all girls. Was it just because he had lost one hand and one eye in an accident? Was it because he was no longer a varsity football player?

She was the whole reason his life sucked, the reason why girls no longer liked him, the reason he’d dropped out of high school and now stayed at his parents’ house all day, spending the money they gave him on alcohol and drugs. It was her and every bitch like her. She had made a mistake by turning him down. She would pay.

He often wished he could just go back to the way he was before he lost his hand and eye, or at least become someone else.

And he wished he could wipe that stupid smug expression off that bitch’s face, maybe cut it up a little, definitely rape her, make things even.

His idol, 2BaD was on the radio. He listened to the words, uttered without shame, with outright arrogance: “Sit next to me and I’ll grab your seat! Smack up your face while you grind my meat!”

He nodded his head to the beat. Yeah, that’s how Brad wanted to be. A man has got to take what he wants in life, because no one is going to just let you have it.

The song stopped. “What the fuck?” he muttered. He stared at the stereo. It was silent. Damn, where was the remote control? He took another sip. The beer was warm. Damn.

But just when he was about to actually get up, another song started playing on the radio. The words were:

I have two, two eyes to look at you,

And two, two hands to hold.

But I have two, two tears I shed for you,

For my secret love, untold.

His face screwed up in anger. “Stupid fag shit!” he shouted and got up and turned the stereo off. He went to the window, opened the blinds and looked out.

It was snowing.

The storm was covering everything, turning everything white. It reminded him of emptiness, reminded him of his life.

He wanted to make Mary’s life empty too, but he’d always been too much of a coward, too afraid of getting caught, but he’d watched her one day at the strip club. Watched her shaking those sweet tits, moving that plump ass of hers. She had seen him in the crowd and he had loved the look of fear in her eyes, but of course, she’d later gotten a restraining order on him.

That had been a great day, but like everything in life, it didn’t last.

He was searching for something in his life, a purpose. Maybe it was out there, whatever he was looking for, in the gentle whiteness, the serene blanket … of the snow.

Then he heard them calling—lulling, high voices, beautiful female voices, singing, “Don’t be gay! Don’t be gay! Come out and play! Come out and play!”

He scowled. He was not gay! He would have gladly raped numerous girls if he could—naive, younger girls—drunken girls passed out on the floor—low self-esteem girls who paid with their bodies just to be able to hang out with the cool boys, the bad boys … if he only had all his parts!

Then without really thinking about it, he was going outside, to be in the snow, he was opening the door … and he was outside.

And he was stumbling drunkenly in the snow, walking in the direction of the house where Mary used to live.

He knew what he had to do now. Mary used to live a couple of blocks away. He was going to walk there. Somehow in his drunken, drugged brain, he sensed that Mary would show up—she would show up, to check up on Katie—the storm would be making everything a mess, would hide everything, would keep the cops away—he would rape her if he could … or he’d piss on the door … or she wouldn’t show up and he’d just stand there and think about Mary … or he’d mess around with Katie, just because she was Mary’s stepsister … he didn’t know really … maybe it didn’t make sense, but it was what he was going to do.

He stopped for a moment and looked around at the swirling whiteness. The way the snow swirled through the air made him feel like he was inside a white cocoon.

It was so peaceful here. Finally, there was peace in his life. It was so gentle, so colorless.

Only white.

He closed his eyes and through his eyelids came only pure, shimmering light.

He had missed this his whole entire life, never known this feeling. The tears of finality streamed from his eyes, freezing in place almost as soon as they were issued.

This was the feeling.

He wanted to stay here forever.

But … there was something whispering in his ear … he could barely hear it … he tried to make out what it was saying … “Are you … as pure … as the driven snow?”

He turned his head and looked behind him, scowling, but no one was there.

“Stupid fucker,” he muttered.

He continued walking to Mary’s old house.…

Mary was lost. The snow was making it too hard to see. She must have made a wrong turn somewhere, but she felt she must be close. She just had to get her bearings.

She took a right, then felt her stomach lurch as the SUV slid in an eery, slow-motion fishtail and coasted into a drainage ditch in someone’s yard, then bumped still.

The wheels spun in place when she stepped on the gas. She was stuck.

For a moment, she sat silently. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth and her eyes went wide.

She looked around for her cell phone, but she couldn’t find it.

Dammit! She must have left it at work!

It seemed she had no choice but to get out and walk.

She opened the door and carefully stepped out.

She stood in the yard of a house. She squinted to try to see through the swirling, howling snow. She felt that at any moment, the wind might knock her over and send her tumbling on a piece of ice.

She looked down glumly at her two shoes sunken into the snow, touching frozen grass underneath.

She looked out again. Despite the frenzy of the storm, there was something oddly calm, almost loving about it. Suddenly it struck her how beautiful it was. So serene, so pure … like she used to be.

She stood thinking, watching, listening.

Was she as pure as the driven sno?

No, she wasn’t, not anymore. She sighed. That purity, that innocence, had somehow gotten away from her—maybe it had been taken away from her, by a world and a collection of human beings all conspiring together to rob her of it, to destroy that in her.

She was even guilty herself of wanting to destroy it, to rid herself of it like it was some kind of disease.

A conspiracy of corruption.

It felt like her life was spinning out of control. She wished she could go back sometimes.

She looked around, then shouted, “And I wish this snow would stop!” … and then it did. She looked around her, stunned, as the last few snowflakes drifted down and the wind stopped. Now it was eerily quiet compared to what it had been just a few moments ago.

And now the air was clear.

She stared at the house, looked at the address … it was Dad’s house. But there were no SUV’s in the driveway. Was anyone home?

She walked up and knocked on the door, then rang the doorbell.

She waited. No answer.

Down the street, a crowd of people was just standing in the middle of the road—they seemed to all be gathered around something that they were all looking at, but from where she stood, Mary couldn’t tell what it was. She wondered what was going on, but first she had to find out if Katie was okay.

She began to worry. She was about to call out Katie’s name, when she heard a rustling noise. She cocked her head. It was coming from the backyard.…

She walked to the back fence and she could hear a person moving around.

“Katie?” she called. She opened the door of the wooden fence.

“Katie!” Mary shouted.

Katie was kneeling in the snow in the backyard and as Mary shouted at her, she jerked and looked up, too quickly, like someone on a stimulant. Her eyes were wide, her pupils big black holes. She met Mary’s eyes fearlessly, stared into her like a cold-hearted criminal—then the croaking voice came, low and guttural … “Snooooooooooo.”

Mary blinked rapidly, thinking this had to be a joke, Katie couldn’t seriously be saying something so stupid.

Katie said it again, “Snoooooooo.”

“Katie, what are you—” Then she saw Katie’s hands. Mary gasped and uttered, “Oh my god!”—Katie’s hands were blue-gray, frozen solid like a chicken thigh in a freezer, with fingers crinkled in place. Katie seemed to be trying to make snowballs or something, but the snow just kept sliding off her hands. Oh god, she has frostbite, Mary thought, as she began to panic.

With a sudden sense of urgency, she scooped Katie up into her arms.

Katie went limp inside her grasp, her head rolled to the side, and she mumbled, “Gotta make a snoman,” then she sniffled, as Mary carried her in the direction of the crowd she had seen.

“Help!” she yelled at the crowd of people in the road as she made her way over to them, “It’s an emergency!” She had to be careful of ice, slowly making her way over there, stopping to yell. But no one was turning around.

“Hey!” Mary shouted. Why weren’t they responding? Couldn’t they hear? Were they ignoring her? It made no sense—they weren’t even turning to look. What were they looking at?

Finally, after a long, suspenseful walk, she made her way to the crowd. Angrily, she shouted at the back of some old lady’s head, “Hey! My sister has frostbite!”

Finally, the old lady acknowledged her, turning her head briefly to glance at Mary. Then she stepped back and to the side and gesturing with her chin, softly said, “Look.”

Now Mary could see what the crowd was gazing at.

It was Brad Reinke—he seemed to be frozen in place, like a statue.

In a kind of daze, Mary set Katie down.

Gazing upon him, the girls each pressed a hand to their chest, inhaled a deep breath of awe.

The snow had transformed him, made him beautiful.

He was like a beautiful sculpture, half human, half sno—his neck was now long and graceful, like a swan, his eyes were large and round, eyelashes thick—the skin smooth and white like porcelain, lips as red as blood—he was like some fantastic reptilian dream-creature, not constrained to what he had been born as, but improved, better-than-human. Frozen crystal tears twinkled upon his face and his eyes were glowing green with a mysterious inner energy.

Katie’s eyes went wide with wonder as she gazed upon Brad. “The snoman,” she whispered. “It’s the snoman.”

Mary stood with her fists clenched at her sides, watching Katie.

Katie was shuffling toward the frozen mock-statue, murmuring, “Pretty snoboi,” with her arms held out in front of her.

It took a moment for Mary to realize what Katie was doing. “Katie no!” she shouted.

But Katie was already placing her blue-gray hands upon the frozen-creature’s chest as tears streamed down her face. Katie’s blue-gray hands were so painful to look at that Mary cringed and looked away for a moment.

But Mary forced herself to look again.

She blinked in astonishment.

Katie’s hands had miraculously healed! The crowd began clapping as if the occurrence was no surprise at all.

And then Mary herself was walking toward the snoman, and she was touching him too.

And she was overwhelmed with such sadness.

Such gentle sadness. A sadness of emptiness. A sadness of yearning.

She began to tremble as she thought back to certain key moments of her life, thought of growing up, watching her face change in the mirror.

And something—something inside of her—was returning, recapturing the past.

She was reclaiming her innocence—and the snoman was like an antenna, taking back all the innocence that had been taken from her and returning it.

She blinked in astonishment.

“Thank you,” she whispered to the snoman, but the snoman remained frozen, with solid tears twinkling.

She and Katie turned to look at each other. The edge of Mary’s mouth lifted up into a half smile as she stared into Katie’s eyes.

The trial of the sno was over, Mary knew. And after each winter, there always comes spring.

Mary turned her head and looked behind her and down to the sno that surrounded them on the ground—she looked back at Katie, who nodded.

Spreading their arms at the same time, they both plopped back into the sno and, giggling, they pumped their arms and legs up and down to make sno angels.

Chapter 27

The Garden of Delights

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.

—Oscar Wilde

Innocence was cautiously peeking out from beneath the beds of pure maidens and venturing forth to rendezvous with the coming spring. It flirted with the allure of the forbidden in a dance of seduction. As the sun began to rise over the ground, the maidens began to slowly awaken.

And the maidens were cuddled in a silken half-dream, lingering buoyantly in the abyss between dream and reality—slowly the world around them was drifting into the real—and they raised their darling heads from their pillows. But this morning, the dusky shadow-world of the half-dream and half-real didn’t totter all the way over into the real side, but lingered in the air.

They sit up in bed, with bedroom eyes.

Lust is in the air, and between peoples’ thighs.

And an anonymous brown-haired girl walks to her windowsill, opens the shades and peers out at the pure, white snow of yesterday’s snowstorm as it glistens on her yard and the yards of the other houses. A strange, titillating energy seems to shimmer throughout the air like fireflies. She sits hugging herself, with her potted plant beside her—she grins because she can sense that it will soon be warm enough to bring her pink-flowered plant outside.

Sweet corruption beckons all the children of the twilight. And she is answering its call—she is giving in.

She is like an untainted maiden who is drawn to the thrill of debauchery, lusting to be corrupted.

Like sleepwalkers only vaguely aware of their actions, they walk. They are wearing sweaters and jackets, because the weather is still quite a bit nippy.

But with each step, the air is warming, the snow beginning to slowly melt, slowly getting wetter, and beginning to drip.

And, as prophesized, the long winter is at an end. Our Lady of Innocence, previously tied up in rope bonds, with knots around her ankles and wrists, struggling with her panties in her mouth—she is suddenly freed—and with her mouth now uninhibited, she sings the siren song of the longing for delights, like a cooped up Catholic schoolgirl suddenly unleashed and sent off to college.

And the frozen tears of the snow melt into the tears of the Lady’s delight, filling ponds with fresh water.

~~A quote from the Bible:

And the LORD God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there he put the man whom he had formed. And out of the ground made the LORD God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil.

As the anonymous brown-haired girl walks through the streets, she looks about in admiration of the new season—she sees how beautiful is the simplicity of the thawing grass and leaves—her lovely eyes look out upon it all with wide-eyed wonder, blinking rapidly with twittering titillation.

~~A prophesy from The Nubile Verses:

And lo, violet hair shall be special, a distinction to mark the “torch-bearers of innocence.” And one day, the twins shall be united and the Garden of Delights shall be revealed and there shall come eternal spring after the long winter. And nobility will give way to nubility. And a blond-haired angel will come, who shall release innocence into the world and call the nymphs to return. And all the tender buds of the world will begin to blossom!

So it was foretold.

And the air is warm now, uncomfortably warm—and lo, they are shedding their sweaters—they are baring their thongs and bras, and, just as quickly, they are slipping them off. And she is unashamed … of their nakedness. She continues walking—others are walking too, heading for the same destination.…

The allure of the forbidden shimmers throughout the air, and becomes more and more seductive as the sun rises in the sky. Swirling desires surround every person’s body.

But it isn’t only the girl-next-door types like the brown-haired girl being drawn, because the nubile nymphs from the times of yore are coming now, being drawn like whores to the sound of an opening wallet, coming out from their hiding places in the forests, and they are frolicking alongside the delightful children of the new age, holding hands while they carry their plants in the other hand. The nymphs had not been seen by the common people for centuries, but now they are needed and cherished again, and they issue forth in a tide of bouncing nubile flesh. And where the girls go, the boys follow.

And the girl doesn’t know why, but she is being drawn to the garden like a moth to a flame.

Seduction and delight,

Is like a crackling in the air.

And quietly, unassumingly,

A garden is forming over there.

Writhing hills of pleasurous flesh.

Delights and debauchery for all to obsess.

“O, sweet corruption, flow over me. Flower inside of me,” whispers the anonymous girl, then she looks around her, feeling a little silly for saying such a thing out loud. What is coming over me? she thinks to herself.

She steps daintily, her bare toes squishing on the pavement, as she walks toward that focal point of her desires.

And here she is now, and as she enters the gates of the garden, the wind whispers into her ear, “Welcome to the Garden of Innocence, sweetheart.”

And at that very moment, her hymen grows anew, like the trampled flowers rise again in spring, and she is a virgin once more.

~~from the Bible:

And the woman said unto the serpent, We may eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden:

But of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God hath said, Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die.

And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die:

For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.

And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her; and he did eat.

And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked;

And in the present, all the boys and girls of the garden, are all naked, but are not ashamed, because to them it is just nakedness, which is natural.

The brown-haired girl holds her arms out and begins to twirl—she is in the midst of the Garden of Innocence.

A garden of flesh and flowers—and tender buds, once trampled, growing anew, no longer ashamed, and blooming, like the blooms of youth.

The girls are adorable and cute, giggling and covering their mouths shyly. The boys glance back at them timidly, with a glowing ember of desire in their eyes.

The garden is like the landscape of a dream spreading vastly in front of the brown-haired girl. And oddly, perhaps even impossibly, the garden inclines—so that every person can see to all corners of the garden, can see everything at once. Here and there, various innocent mini-scenes take place.

She turns her head to her right. Over there, girls are hopping daintily unto the trees with their arms held aloft above their darling heads.

She turns her head to the left, and over there lies a field of strawberries with naked pink-cheeked maidens biting into strawberries while giggling and wiping the juice from each others’ chins.

And the whole while, more nymphs are arriving, carrying flowers and little trees. And they squat and plant them in the soil of the garden.

And all the girl-next-doors are bringing their flowers too, and planting them.…

As the brown-haired girl stands up from her squatting, she dusts the dirt off her hands and looks around, gazing at the majesty of the garden … someone hands her a purple flower, says it’s a lotus, beckons her to eat it. She lifts it to her mouth and begins to chew the petals. It tastes sweet and tingly on her tongue, and she swallows.

She swallows that allure of the forbidden, the calling of lust.

And meanwhile, in the garden, innocent-faced girlies ride around in a big circle of miniponies, howling like Indian warriors of debauchery, fists pumped in the air. They writhe and rub against the soft, furry backs of their steeds.

And on the inside of the circle, in the middle of the garden, is a shimmering violet lagoon, where nubile nymphs swim and brush their hair and sing, as the circle of ponies goes around and around.…

The sun rising in the sky surrounds the garden with violet hues shimmering in the air and clouds.

She stares at those clouds undulating in the sky, then suddenly, the allure of the forbidden overwhelms the girl’s body like a flood of a lake, a flood of lust. She shudders and whimpers.

And the garden surrounding her is marvelous.

Filled with so many flowers:

The lotus, o lust—symbol of sensual pleasure, and wanton abandon,

The violet—beauty and youth, innocence set free and unimpeded,

The rose—the pain of life, the pain that makes us cherish,

And various pink-flowered plants, symbol of self-satisfaction, filling girls with delight.

And the garden is radiant, with shimmering colors of the flowers mixing with the color of swaying hair and glistening, jostling flesh, all wrapped in a hue of shimmering violet throughout the air.

Innocently, the boys and girls of the garden frolic and tease, innocently, they are exploring each other’s bodies, innocently they lap at open vaginas, and suck upon throbbing phalluses.

Lust is shuddering through her body, lust shimmering in the air.

A gnawing hunger that has to be filled.

She is surrounded by flesh, and there are so many pretty boys in the garden, with long, lean limbs and fingertips and fluttering eyelashes like girls’. And here and there, a pair of pretty boys kiss each other while gripping each others’ hard erections.

And the unending laughter and moaning is a music of ecstasy in the air, filling her ears, going through her whole body, making her tingle with delight.

While over there, the miniponies whinny and neigh, prouder than ever before.

And over here, girls flick their tongues with serpents, flittering their round tongues with the serpents’ forked ones, as the serpents rise up from the ground, swaying like cobras mesmerized by a fluted Indian. And other boys and girls sit watching, with pie-tins in their laps, biting into sporkfuls of apple pie while giggling.

There is a pause in everyone’s festivities. They all turn to watch the developing scene. The brown-haired girl watches a beautiful, violet-haired girl standing by the lagoon far away in the center of the garden. The girl stands surrounded by a crowd of naked, nubile nymphs. The violet-haired girl points upward—she is directing them to hoist up a giant, 50-foot-high tree, a green spruce tree that looks like a giant Christmas tree. The strong steel cables connected to the crane hoist it up—the tree becomes more and more erect until it is standing straight up and proud, pointing straight up toward the sky. And the nymphs set to task, working at its base to make sure it doesn’t fall.

And the brown-eyed girls’ eyes are now open wide, and twitching, the excitement shimmering through her body.

Cheers ring throughout the garden, then the festivities resume. In her excitement, the brown-haired girl grabs the nearest face and kisses the person passionately, unaware if they are a boy or girl, or a mixture perhaps of both.

And over here, groups of girls wrestle in a pit of serpents while boys with erections dump pails of pudding on them.

And over there, boys juggle berries while girls in teepees toss burritos at them, playfully trying to make the boys fumble.

And far away, a group of boys and girls are doing cartwheels and drunkenly crashing into each other and toppling over.

And the brown-haired girl slowly turns her head, gazing out upon all these scenes of delight and debauchery that look like some kind of Bosch painting—it is more numerous and vast than she can see all at once—and looking out she sees that it is beautiful, as she lays on her back, now spreads her legs, and the person she kissed begins to lick.

Total, unconditional love—love in its purest form. Being in the garden is like mainlining it until it saturates your body, and it oozes out of you, projecting back outward into the air, even going into the ground, so that even the flowers soak it up and grow with it in their petals.

Debaucherous fornication. Mounds of writhing bodies. There is no longer a need to resist temptation. Yearning hard nipples. Probing tongues licking and licking. And whoredom becomes the new virtue. Jiggling pairs of flesh. Twitching parts aching to be tasted. the Garden of Innocence is now transformed into a garden of whores, glorious whores. Unashamed, legs spread, phalluses hard, straight up and throbbing.

And as the boys and girls of the garden moan and whimper, they seem to have forgotten that there may be a price to pay for their pleasure—they’ve forgotten how, in the times of yore, whoredom and debauchery were muchly discouraged and greatly punished by God.

The Bible even speaks of two whores in particular, two sisters, by the names of Aholah and Aholibah, and their ultimate fate:

~~from the Bible:

And they committed whoredoms in Egypt; they committed whoredoms in their youth: there were their breasts pressed, and there they bruised the teats of theirvirginity.…

Therefore, O Aholibah, thus saith the Lord GOD; Behold, I will raise up thy lovers against thee, from whom thy mind is alienated, and I will bring them against thee on every side.…

And I will set my jealousy against thee, and they shall deal furiously with thee: they shall take away thy nose and thine ears; and thy remnant shall fall by the sword: they shall take thy sons and thy daughters; and thy residue shall be devoured by the fire.

~~prophesy from The Nubile Verses:

And in the garden, they shall bruise the teats of their virginity anew, defiling themselves upon the altar of lust. And so they shall become indistinguishable from animals, reveling in debauchery and fornication, forgetting the sin of their nakedness, and forgetting the lessons of the past whores and all their punishments.

And now, in the present, the new virgins revel in their defilement—indeed they writhe with it, are alive and half dead with it in that half-world of dreams, the twilight of the subconscious. Gleefully they spread their legs like whores, and gladly do the young pretty boys and girls enter their holes.

And the whole garden has become a stage for the Dance of the Flesh of the Nubile Nymphs—it’s like a ballet of perversity. Eyes narrowed by lust, long lashes fluttering, licking at the lips of pretty boys and girls—languorous movements of their hands upon pleasurous parts.

Holey pudendas, writhing, twisting limbs, pointing phalluses—it is all in the garden … darling heads resting upon lulling chests, seeking a brief break from the passionate pleasure of the body—while others continue their passionate fucking, lapping at belly buttons, slits, and rods.

And over here, is a delirious, brown-haired diva, twirling with her arms held out, the anonymous girl shouts, “I am dark, and I am beautiful! I am a wall! And my breasts are towers!”

And the garden surrounding them all is like a womb, bringing forth the children of the new age.

And there is no need for condoms in this magical land, and if a sexually transmitted disease exists to be spread, it is love. And all the girls are sterile, just as they were before, frolicking with games of lust as if it were just play, seeking solace and comfort in the arms of others.

The brown-haired girl is distracted away from the cock in her mouth, because there is now a strange new sound, coming from the sky. It’s the wump wump wump of a helicopter. The girl’s heart skips a little from the fright, but as she locates the helicopter in the sky, she is relieved to see that it’s not a military helicopter as she had feared.

All the people in the garden go silent … except for one girl, who is too far over the edge and screams out her orgasm that echoes throughout the garden—now there is only the sound of the wump wump of the helicopter.

The helicopter flies to the center of the garden, to where the tree is, then lands next to it.

The violet-haired girl quits her rutting next to the tree, stands up, dusts off her rear end, then gleefully walks up to the helicopter with a big grin on her face.

The whole garden watches in anticipation of who will step out of the helicopter.…

The brown-haired girl catches her breath as she watches from far away—the helicopter door opens and the blades of the helicopter slow to a stop … she watches a long, utterly female leg come out from the door, wearing a stiletto heel pump. Then the second leg swings out, just as perfect as the first. And as the pale bare legs slide out, they seem impossibly long for any woman of this earth.

Then the body steps out—she is in a metallic-silver two-piece bikini. The heavenly woman rises up from her crouch and she is very tall and lean. She must be at least six feet tall, delicate and graceful.

At the very same instant that the anonymous brown-haired girl thinks she recognizes the person, the cry travels throughout the garden in a wave … “It is Tyria!” the people shout. Tyria, the supermodel.

She feels a chill run through her body and she wraps her arms around herself—she’s whispering under her breath, “Tyria … Tyria” … then the flood of memories from childhood flash through her mind.

The poster of Tyria on her bedroom wall, the collection of magazines with Tyria on the cover … how she felt she could never measure up, she could never change her bone structure, she could never stretch herself to be taller, to be like … Tyria … she could never change her face to be the face of … Tyria, or make her breasts the breasts of Tyria, her ass the ass of Tyria, her lips the lips of Tyria.… She could only be herself, stuck in the same body for her entire life—an anonymous brown-haired girl, no different from any other. The brown-haired girl had adored and hated Tyria ever since she was a little girl, had hung pictures on the wall, even as she hurt sometimes when she looked at them.

But now she feels an almost-physical sensation, a letting go of envy, almost as if it were a part of her body being amputated.

She realizes now that the garden is about the beauty of all the souls—every girl, every boy is gloriously beautiful, each a twinkling star, utterly unique, yet everyone is the same at the same time. And the envy of everyone wilts and blows away like the petals of dead flowers.

There are no mirrors in the garden, but the brown-haired girl doesn’t have to see herself to see how beautiful she is—she can feel the adoration in all the eyes that watch her movements, the bedroom-eyed lovers that embrace her with their gaze.

She watches with a quirky grin on her face as the violet-haired girl approaches the supermodel. The two glorious female specimens embrace, then kiss each other on the lips for several seconds, mingling tongues.

And as their lips press together, she feels a tingling in her spine almost as if she herself has been touched by them.

Flustered, she shakes her head, to break the voyeuristic spell.

The nymphs had installed a sound system earlier, and now the violet-haired girl walks up to the microphone pole and grabs the microphone off. Her voice booms all over the garden: “Hello everyone and welcome to the Garden of Delights!” The crowd roars with fists uplifted in the air. “I do hope you’ve been having a good time! I know I have! Why, my little pussy is sore! My name is Mary by the way—perhaps some of you have seen me perform. My stripper name was Angel. Anyway, I didn’t want to interrupt you all earlier, but now that Tyria is here, I would like to propose a toast!” She lifts a glass of clear liquid up in front of her. “But first, let me tell you a short story.… Yesterday, I had a brief encounter with a beautiful boy. It’s a little complicated to really go into, but suffice it to say, I touched him and he touched me … though not without my protest! But in the end, he helped me regain my innocence and in return, I must admit, I stole his heart and then … I melted it.” She giggles. “But anyway, now it’s all over and everything has melted away, so to speak. But without him, none of this would be happening. Our past relationships help to form us into the people we will become—it is like the soil that helps us to grow, for we are all like tender little buds in this glorious garden! And now, it’s time to move on! It’s spring now! Time to let our snowmen melt and embrace the budding new tender buds!” The roar from the crowd is deafening. Now Mary is raising the glass high over her head. She continues, “So I would like to propose a toast—here’s to the new age, not the Age of Innocence, because that is long over, but here’s to the new age of mankind, the Tender Age, when no longer will hearts be stolen only to be broken … here’s to the glory of lust and debauchery! And here’s to the last heart that will be broken!” And she gulps the glass of liquid down.…

As the brown-haired girl wonders exactly what that liquid is, Tyria grabs the microphone and begins to speak: “Hello everyone. As many of you already know, my name is Tyria. Today is a beautiful day. I used to be a totally plastic supermodel, but today I feel I’ve grown a soul—I’m kind of like Pinocchio! I come to you all, this afternoon to seek comfort in the embrace of strangers! Today, this day, is the dawn of the new Tender Age, and starting today, the tyranny of the supermodel is over! From this day forward, everybody is a supermodel!”

Mary stands upon the back of a nymph, then holds up Tyria’s arm like a congratulator holding up the arm of a champion pole-vaulter in the Olympics, as everyone in the garden cheers.

~~A prophesy from The Nubile Verses:

When the virgin anti-mother embraces the sterile anti-woman and incestuous harlot sister of the second messiah, there shall be the holey cuddling, and debauchery and whoredom shall overflow in the land of milk and honey. And the divine voyeur shall smile his blessings down upon the holey threesome. But lo, in their intoxication, they will have forgotten what sin is; they shall turn their backside to the Lord, forgetting how jealous and vengeful He is.

~~from the Bible:

God is jealous, and the LORD revengeth; the LORD revengeth, and is furious; the LORD will take vengeance on his adversaries, and he reserveth wrath for his enemies.

Mary takes the microphone again and proclaims, “We await the profane harlot to complete our glorious threesome! But until then, resume your fornication!”

A large roar from the garden answers her words, though no one seems really sure of what she’s talking about. And the boys and girls of the garden get back into their positions and resume their animal-like rutting.

In the garden, all harlots are equally marvelous. In the garden, their teats are begging to be bruised.

The garden of old, the Garden of Innocence, is now forgotten.

The tears down the brown-haired girl’s face are free-flowing. She feels so happy that all the liquids are just oozing out of her.

And surrounding her on all sides, to all the horizons, are the frolicking, jostling, jiggling, moaning boys and girls of the garden.

She feels gentle hands lift her hair, then a soft kiss on the back of her neck, and she gives herself in once again to the pleasures of the flesh.

Tender age, tender parts, tender souls. Finally conjoining. Intertwining like piles of languorous serpents. No longer is there a sin known as lust. Lust is all there is.

Teepees and fish, glowing slugs sliding along the ground, giggling young girls, breasts jiggling with laughter, climbing into and out of giant clams, as the pouty-faced nymphs in delight hold their arms aloft and the trouts of desire leap about their arms. Slipping and sliding, gallivanting, like a ballet of desires set free.

Long lashes fluttering in synchrony with butterfly wings.

And so many kisses.

Now limping, jerking, comes the “androgynous” messiah, entering the outer edge of the garden. Part plastic, and part flesh, with the head of a beautiful male with long, black hair—he is naked, with torso and breasts of a perfectly-molded female mannequin—he’s a mixture of male and female, brother and sister, nature and plastic—he is the central point of the “holy conjoining” around which the whole garden is formed.

And he is walking while dying, holding onto the shoulders of a black-haired girl, his feet dragging occasionally—his strength is fading from his sorrow at the cruelty of mankind and the impossibility of his own unholey state.

As the two slowly make their way through the garden, the crowd parts whenever they walk by, watching briefly, before resuming their copulation and games. The messiah and the black-haired girl are making their way to the center of the garden.

And meanwhile, over here, are nubile nymphs holding gigantic eggs above their heads while breaking them gleefully over each other’s heads, and the orange yokes ooze down their bodies in rivulets.

Now the brown-haired girl turns her head to the side, gazes over the mounds of shifting flesh, at the Violet-Haired Queen, the Nubile Queen—and oh, she is so beautiful—with shimmering violet hair that sways while she is on her knees being fucked from behind, and she gnashes her teeth like an animal.

The brown-haired girl shifts position to allow easier access to the boy fucking her, now looks backward at herself being entered.

And the brown-haired girl gazes again upon the Queen—who now is lying on her back—now her hands are upon the soft mounds of her breasts, rhythmically kneading, while she is being humped by a longhaired boy—and his long, black hair rhythmically sways against her cheek.

And here and there about the garden, some of the boys and girls look up from time to time as the sun begins to set, then resume their fornicating. And so twilight is gently caressing the sky, as the stars teasingly begin to reveal themselves like nipples beneath a sheer negligee.

The twining of limbs fill the human painting up to the horizon, the shadows of their bodies writhing like a pit of serpents, the sounds of hundreds of moans and cries of ecstasy fill the air. All possible variations of couplings and triplings interlock—there are even circles of people fornicating, dozens at the same time.

O, beautiful children of the new Tender Age, so wet and aching, how quickly you forget what sin is.

And now the messiah and the black-haired girl at his side have finally arrived at the center of the garden—the black-haired girl taps Mary on the shoulder as she is being double-penetrated by a pretty boy and a girl with a strap-on.

Soon Tyria returns, just as soon as she is done sucking off and swallowing a group of hot guys’ sperm. She wipes her mouth.

The girls gather around the messiah and their expressions are of concern and sympathy. They kiss his cheeks and run their hands gently through his hair.

They talk back and forth amongst themselves. It is unclear what they’re saying.

But now, they seem to have come to an agreement.

The black-haired girl grabs the microphone, while behind her, Mary and Tyria begin to tie the messiah to a wooden cross made from the branches of the great Christmas tree. They are tying his wrists using the discarded panties of maidens.

The black-haired girl addresses the garden:

“Hello, everyone. My name is Jasmine. The boy behind me is the second messiah. I am his sister. Yesterday, we were reunited after years of being apart. I think we were both drawn to the energy that is collecting and growing here today in this garden. Yesterday, I was ashamed of being slutty, but today I give myself over to the glory of whoredom!” She raises her fist up into the air and shouts, “That’s right, I’m not ashamed! As a matter of fact, I’m proud! That’s right, you know what I am? Huh? I am a … fornicator! Oh yes I am, and it fucking feels so good! And you know what else? I am a cocksucker! And … I’m even a tit-licker. Glory be to the whores! Here in this new glorious age, how divine is defilement!”

She raises her voice and shouts, “Glory be to the whores!”

The boys and girls of the garden roar the words back to her:

GLORY BE TO THE WHORES

“But now I would like to let my brother speak to you … as soon as the panties have been completely tied around his ankles.…”

~~These were Jesus’ last words on earth, according to Mark’s Gospel, from Mark 16:

And these signs shall follow them that believe; In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.

~~The Nubile Verses contains a similar passage:

And lo, these signs shall follow them that are nubile; they shall speak with new tongues, they shall take up serpents and gorge themselves upon them; they shall drink much wine with no hangovers; they shall lay their hands upon those who are sick with unquenched lust.

Everybody waits in anticipation—Mary is squirting some wine into the messiah’s open mouth as Tyria is tying his ankles to the bottom of the cross. As the knot on the pink panties is pulled tight, Jasmine nods, then she holds the microphone up to him, who has now been completely bound, and in a pained voice of sorrow and compassion, he whispers, in a strange amplified whisper, “O, beautiful children. Today is the day it all changes.” He seems to be out of his head, mumbling in a strange sort of insane rapture. “Verily I say unto you, this is the culmination of centuries of human suffering, and now it’s finally all paid off. They took your innocence away from you—they ripped it away! But oh, my little darlings, today, you get it back. The real and the ideal are combining. From now on, we are all like perfect, beautiful mannequins to be gazed upon and adored! But I’m afraid my time is limited—I can’t exist much longer in this state of half-between. The energy is growing. Now is the time. Lift me up! I like to watch. I want to see … how beautiful you all are.”

And so they hoist the second messiah up, by a rope tied to the helicopter—he is adorned with a wreath of flowers, up up like a throbbing phallus he is rising upon the cross made of the limbs of the sacred tree, and he becomes aglow with that mixture of half love and half lust, wrapped in a shining shroud of light, the points of light coming out from his fingertips and eyes are like a star, like a superstar. They carefully lower him so that he balances like a bizarre Christmas ornament on the top of the tree—he looks almost like a crucifix with breasts, with a smooth porcelain body and his arms held out to the side like he is about to hug. A nymph shimmies down the rope to secure him in place.

And he looks upon the whole garden, and grins, seeing that it is good.

And the children of the garden gaze upon him—he is the focal point of their adoration. Their eyes grow wide with wonder and they see that he is good too—they are dazzled by the beauty of this androgynous part-woman, part-man, part-plastic. They feel the overwhelming awe of witnessing this glorious, unholey combination of things not meant to go together.

And over here, on their backs with their legs spread, are the first girls giving themselves over completely to the pleasures of the flesh, the first of the girls fornicating with serpents, slipping them into their luscious pussies while the tails wriggle.

And as the brown-haired girl feels the serpent wriggling inside herself, she realizes now how limiting her ideas used to be. To think that the former generation had been so selfish—that they had selfishly stuck to their monogamous relationships, limiting themselves to the species of human when, now she realizes that love belongs to everyone and everything—to all objects, to all animals, plants, even the stars. Love is for everyone. Sex is with everything.

And the messiah’s body twists and jerks in its ecstasy and pain as the life slowly drains from his mortal flesh.

Those three divine specimens of girlness, each in turn are kneeling on the ground, in the view of the androgynous messiah, bowing their heads to pay their respect. They are finally all together in the same place, and it is a magical moment.

He looks down upon them and there is the most divine expression of adoration.

As the members of the holey three gaze up at the twittering body of the second messiah, they become turned on, their arms are reaching up, they are unable to keep their hands off of each other. They are groping each other’s breasts—the messiah’s dying is an aphrodisiac.

They squeeze and slap each others’ rumps … as night falls and the stars now poke sharply into view like nipples beneath a sheer negligee doused in ice water. The heaps of bodies become shrouded beneath the mystery of the moonlight.

And meanwhile, in the rest of the garden, some of those who are taking a rest, sit up while eating the petals of the lotus, staring up at the stars as they twinkle. Each star is a giant in its own solar system, perhaps the center of a ring of planets, now reduced to one of many, merely winking and twinkling solely for the entertainment of the children of delights.

The brown-haired girl sets aside the serpent as she is transfixed by the beauty of the sky. The serpent slithers away. She sits up cross-legged, naked, twitching and swaying in her inebriation. She reaches out, reaching up for the nearest star, but she topples over, and instead she grabs a boob. And the girl whose boob it is smiles back at her in inebriated delight.

The brown-haired girl shifts her gaze from the stars in the sky to the stars in the girl’s eyes. They grin at each other. They gaze deeply into each other’s eyes as the brown-haired girl feels another serpent slithering up the inside of her thigh. As she shudders at its caressing slither, a boy pulls the other girl backward, then begins to thrust inside her.

The anonymous brown-haired girl grins as she pets the serpent between her legs.

All around her, they all engage in debauchery heightened by blissful ignorance, for the “glorious amnesia” has overtaken them like a massive trauma wound to the head. There are only tiny remnants of the ruins of tradition left now—every once in a while, lurking in the back of one of their heads might be a thought like, Didn’t there use to be something called sin? but then the thought is quickly forgotten. The “glorious amnesia” is a return to innocence—for isn’t innocence nothing more than a lack of knowledge?

And He, or it, this Christmas ornament, is the inebriated messiah. The Bacchus of a new millennium.

Now everyone just knows without having to be told that he is the “divine voyeur” and his eyes crinkle as he witnesses the beauty of the girls below him.

His face takes on an expression of gentle sadness—as the three girls are now standing up—they are dainty, the color of red is rising up on their cheeks and neck and front of chests—their excitement, their warm and fuzzy feeling is growing.

The three girls turn to look at each other, eyes languorously swaying from side to side like buoys in the ocean, holding and holding the eye contact, gazing deeply into each other’s souls.

They wrap their arms around each other, as the three become like one unit, like one body, soft flesh pressed to flesh, their arms around each other—it is the “holey cuddling” of prophesy—nuzzling, kissing necks, licking at the two other girls’ lips with forked tongues, like serpents. And the brown-haired girl feels a shudder go through her body as she watches in excitement.

They now form the “holey threesome,” the new trinity of Whore, Madonna, and Supermodel, with the Glorious Voyeur watching and adoring.

It is the fulfillment of prophesy: here are the three representations of girls, coming together—

Here is Mary, with her sweaty, violet hair now having a hand being run through it—she is the symbol of innocence, of corrupted innocence, and the anti-mother who absorbed a child into her womb when she was still a virgin.

And here is Tyria, currently having her nipple suckled—a divine specimen of an anti-woman, for she is an inhuman, plastic supermodel—a receptacle and collector of lust and envy.

And here is Jasmine, whose face is covered over by hair as she licks—a simple, profane whore, a sex toy, object of women and men’s desire—she is a total slut, who had incestuous relations with her own brother, the messiah.

And all this sexual energy is now together in one place … cuddling … and the messiah is watching over them, contributing his own male lust-energy of divine voyeurism.

As the flesh of the three girls touches, the sexual energy between them combines and increases, and is propelled even further by the massive energy that is draining out of the messiah’s dying body. The combined energy is projecting outward in waves, shimmering throughout the garden and even going throughout the entire world. And as the three girls become more horny, the energy increases ten-fold.

He weeps.

Tears of joy and sadness—the rapture that comes over your soul in the moments just before dying.

And he gives his soul to all the children of the garden, there upon the cross.

And as the three girls cuddle and caress and finger each other more earnestly, the soul of the messiah leaves his earthly body and ascends into the heavens.

But still, he witnesses all that takes place—

For his eyes are upon the ways of man, and he seeth all his goings. There is no darkness, nor shadow of death, where the workers of debauchery may hide themselves.

And the wind throughout the garden whispers, “You’re so beautiful. Oh my little darling … oh my little kitten.” And as the warm bodies writhe against each other, the wind whispers over and through them—it licks at the inside of their ears its encouragement and endearment and love.

And they are now like the newly born, transformed by the swirling gentle delights of lust around them.

Each person has become special. As special as every star that fills the sky.

And floating above it all, watching, is a pair of green eyes—the divine pervy voyeur—the eyes of the grand adorer. And all the eyes in the garden have become the eyes of the adoring.

Love is around her. Lust elevates, sustains her. Love twitters about her forehead and gropes her. Love exists everywhere, and it is beautiful. Lust slithers inside her, pierces her entrails, kisses her kidneys. Crawls along the inside of her tummy. Love cuddles her soul while diddling her appendix.

She gives in to its seduction—as she arches her back, her head shifts back and her long hair tickles on her spine.

Destiny is fulfilled—all the boys and girls are now past the Age of Innocence and entering into another age when lust and love combine, when playfulness combines with sex—the Tender Age. And they writhe with serpents, and they giggle, unaware, tasting of the lotus and each other’s bodies, for all sin has been forgotten. And their pee is transformed into wine. Their breath is sweet-scented with the aroma of the lotus. Their limbs are glistening with sweat.

And over here, the brown-haired girl watches in astonishment as the serpents all the girls are fucking themselves with, go further and further with each thrust, then finally disappear altogether inside. Excited by the depravity of it all, she thrusts her own serpent up inside herself harder and harder, until she feels it slither into the deep recesses of her womb. She feels the warm afterglow of after-fuck, lies on her back, panting and gently caressing her forehead, remembering the pleasure. She feels the serpent writhing inside her guts, like a baby, and briefly, she wonders what will happen to it—will she digest it, will it eat the inside of her guts?

But quickly, the thoughts leave her as she stands, looking around in the dark with a puzzled expression scrunching her brows, as she feels someone’s gaze upon her cheek.

She meets the eerily glowing green eyes of a longhaired boy with pretty features. The boy looks at the brown-haired girl and looks at her in a way that seems to know her and with understanding. Overwhelmed with emotion, she feels her hand vulnerably lift to her chest, rising with the blush on her cheeks.

Through molten dark lashes he peers and peers, ever deeper and deeper into her soul. It only lasted a second—she could tell he regretted that the time couldn’t be longer, then he walked past her, his arms brushing against hers, the touch electrical.

She turns, feeling the gaze of another pair of eyes upon her cheek.

And another girl gazes upon the brown-haired girl—and maybe her hair is black, or maybe it is brown—it is hard to tell because the dark shrouds everything in a cloak of mystery.

And the other girl’s eyes brim wetly with tears as if she is overcome by the sheer beauty and brutality of it all, of the wonderfulness of the brown-haired girl’s body and face.

And now the other girl feels how soft the anonymous girl’s body is … and she is whispering, “Oh how beautiful we are, making love … fucking.”—there is a changing of hands, now she feels a phallus enter her.

And now she has two serpents inside her, for she can feel the serpent inside her guts, churning, trying to get out. It tickles and feels so good combined with the feeling of the cock inside her. It almost feels like it is poking out along the inside of the small of her back while she is being fucked doggie style.

Licking and whispering, repeating over and over, “Oh my little darling.”—she feels her body pressed against his. He satisfies her need—the pervasive lust she had denied herself up to now. With perfume scent of the flowers gliding over their bodies, they writhe, the soft bite of the breeze nibbling at their flesh. It is all a swirling desire, as if their souls are mixing together, projecting outward and dancing with the souls of everyone else.

And the aura of the garden is a painting of purple against black as the stars watch down from above.

Now the girls let out a moan as they feel the tingling increase in the small of their back—quickly they stand or rise up on their knees—and their tails begin to grow in … the tails poke out, then swell upward, thick and growing longer and longer—they are like the tails of tigers. They flop down at first—but the girls quickly gain muscular control, as their tails rise up from their rears, swaying like cobras mesmerized by a fluted Indian.

With adorable open-mouthed expressions of drunken amazement, they turn their heads to look behind them.

And they grin in delight as waves of pleasure shudder through their bodies.

Their knees are quivering and knocking, quaking their supple thighs—they can no longer stand, they’re dropping to their knees.

Their heads roll in pleasure and their forked tongues poke out to glide across their lips.

Quivering girls going down on all fours,

Breasts hanging down, now dangling and free.

Presenting their rears as glorious whores,

With newly grown tails swaying leisurely.

And she cries out … in a mixture of longing and fulfillment … and the all and the one are mixing. She feels she is outside her body. This is better than the reality she had ever known before. This is the super reality: a mixture of dreams and desires and the pleasures of the flesh. This is absolute paradise and she cannot imagine how it could get any better. More perfect than perfect, because it glorifies the faults, the frailties of existence—and in its mixture of pleasure and pain, it grows to … cherishing. For, as they say, everything must have a balance. In order for there to be pleasure, there must be pain, in order for there to be life, there must be death. And it all exists simultaneously in the garden, mixing, the contrasts playing at each other and using each other to rise up. Like male and female, human and animal, dreams and reality … it all mixes in the great dance of delight.

And here is the brown-haired girl, splayed wide, like all the other girls, pumping herself with her own tail, pumping back and forth, filling herself with it while gazing up at the beautiful diamonds and tears.

She feels two new lovers take a nipple each in their mouth and begin to suckle.

It is intoxicating … and utterly pleasurable.

And her hills, her mounds of delight, her woman-flesh, rising and falling with each of her shuddering breaths, each person partaking of its taste, it is for everyone and everyone is for her. And her orgasms are like lotus flowers of delight, blooming into the open sky of the night.