Razor Wire Pubic Hair (3 page)

            I awake one morning on a pile of human hands, holding me up like a bed.

            Dozens of palms open against my skin, finger-shiftings that massage in parts, tickle in others, engaging flaps of skin.

            My memory seems a bit confused, blotched, as if weeks of my life have suddenly disappeared.  I cannot recall being placed upon a bed of living hands, not even entering the room in which I come from sleep.

            The hands move and my back skin stretches for a burn-pain that clouds with irritation, sometimes skin pinches between fingers, crushes against a bone. 

            Shock-jerks quiver.  And two fingers are probing into my vagina, rubbing until the walls seep strawberry goo.  A penis hardens, and another hand snatches it up like a child to candy.  And then another hand finds my unrisen member, fondling it to make it equally firm, a fingernail crawling up the shaft. It goes balloon-expanding.  It goes solid, almost too far, skin ready to burst, and the harder it gets the deeper the nail digs into it, my spine riding the pain.

            When I try to move, to see where I am, where the hands come from, they pull me back down, seize my wrists and ankles to keep me there, choking the back of my neck.

            Many hours and stages of fatigue and skin abrasions.

            "Friendly, aren’t they?" Celsia’s voice echoing through the chamber.

            I don’t see her anywhere.  The hands hold me in such a way so that my eyes fixate a brick wall that reaches up to a ceilingless sky -- green and red cloud atmosphere.

            Celsia’s face emerges from the corner of my sight to dominate my vision, her metal decorations squirming in and out of her flesh reflecting the green and red light, smile sharp teeth.

            "I usually lie on this bed for hours.  Shall I lie with you?"

            I prefer to get off, please.

            Celsia’s face shifting happy to sour, a hook across my chest as she bends down to turn a lever on the floor.  The hands melt into goo and dribble off my flesh, out of my vagina, and my body lowers, finds itself on a cold plastic-wrap table.

            A drop of blood slips between my breasts and Celsia bends down to lick, her eyes glaring at me like iron. 

            Celsia, walking naked through the kitchen, has recently been decorated with razor wire in her crotch, ruining her soft vagina with the violent metal pubic hair her sister and friends have displayed publicly.

            And the Sister has been working her insecty designs all over me as well, mostly during my unconscious periods.  Some mornings I’ll wake with a new aluminum strand through my lower lip, another woven into my breast meat. Sometimes I wake with a tender black painting across my arm or belly.  Sometimes my skin cut and laminated green so that I appear to have fish scales on my neck and ribs. 

            "The acid clouds have moved over the wasteland again," Celsia says to the Sister.  "We won’t be able to cross for months."

            "That means more rapists near town."

            "Enough to overpower us if they want."

Celsia never noticed the people that live in the attic. 

            They stay up there hiding from her, never coming out not even to play black tarantula.  I hear them moaning sometimes, weeping for a place outside of the attic, looking for things on the inside that they cannot find. Their relationship with the house must be an old one, residing long before Celsia claimed it for her sex games.  Her arrival must have scared them into hiding.  It’s so sad to be them, poor people in the attic in the darkness hiding all the time, scared of Celsia’s razor wire pubic hair, scared she will cut them with it.

            They must not have been loved by her or perhaps her presence is intimidating and crab-like, perhaps they are sex products such as myself, perhaps scared of the real world, scared of growing old, dying, getting raped.  Locked themselves away from reality, living in the darkness to make their heads more clear, crying out at times when the darkness overwhelms them, makes them feel lost inside their own heads. Perhaps I’m not supposed to know about them at all.

            It is raining drops of spiders over the rose bushes and fig trees this morning, slow motion from the tar clouds as they come down on sticky threads.  I watch from a window, my neck leashed to the wall, a hand sliding down my shoulder and cutting scratchy lines to my breast.

            "There are zombies beyond the garden," Celsia tells me.

            She points to motion among shiny bushes in the distance, but there aren’t walking dead I can see.

            "They’re sad creatures," cutting the backside of my ear.  "Wandering aimlessly for something they’ll never find.  Wandering until they are too rotten to continue moving."

            Do they attack you?

            Celsia shrugs her puffy white lips.  "It disturbs them to see me so close to them.  I am a reminder of what they can never have."

            What can they never have?

            Celsia slides a blade or perhaps a finger between my legs, down the crack of my ass cheeks. 

            "Sex, of course," she responds.  "What else could they want?"

            Dirty-cold with sweat afternoon:

            The Sister is making me put my hands in her cunts while she continues to mutilate my body with metal designs and blood piercings.  I am beginning to look like one of them, studded ring on my clit.  Like a woman.  But I have a penis with a hook through it. 

            The woman, Celsia, is squatting naked over a large machine made of flesh, a gigantic mouth wrapped around her waist, slurp-sucking something bloody out of her pubic region.

            Smack to my face, noticing my hands have stopped moving inside the cunts, the Sister screaming, "Pay attention.  She’s only depositing her womb into the incubator."

            I was only watching.

            "She doesn’t like it when you watch her," squeezing my hands hard against her for an angry groan.  "I swear you fuck toys are more trouble than you’re worth."

            It only takes a couple hours before the incubator finishes its job, the machine gurgling in the corner like Celsia’s washing device and cooking device and recycling device, rumbling in the corner to process her womb into a child, squishy bubbling noises echo the fortress.

            When the child is done, steam rises out of the flesh machine and makes a whistle noise, a human whistle screaming from the same lips that were wrapped around Celsia’s crotch.  And both Celsia and the Sister run to the oven with metal aprons on.

            Turn away, look back to the garden to spot the hiding zombies. 

            But the reflection in the glass:

            Celsia is behind my shoulder, excitedly holding up a monstrous child to me with knife-teeth smilings.  Its deformed features and bubbly parts squirm in its mother’s claws, a trickle of blood whenever one of her hooknails catches a pinch of flesh. 

            What is it?

            Celsia cringes, "It’s our baby!"

            She turns the child away from me, pressing it to her pasty nipple.  "I know she doesn’t seem human, but it’s your fault.  You are the father!"

            "No," the Sister enters, stepping to the child to drip cunt-sweat onto its bubble-chest, "it’s a monster because your incubator’s old and rusty.  I told you to get a new one."

            "It’s not a monster!" Celsia hollers at her leaky sister.  "All babies look this way!"

            The Sister smears her juice on the baby like oil, staring into its bulgy black eyeballs. 

            Turning dizzy-gazed, I examine the machine the infant came from.  It is large enough to contain dozens of babies, filled with wires and meat, plugged into the wall.  A hole centers, dripping with food and slime, crunchy hair surrounding the soggy opening, bleeding, trembling, waiting to be sewn up.

            "Look," the Sister says, "it’s smiling."         

            "A flesh bag," Celsia comments.  "But still a beautiful one."

            "Yes," says the Sister, "Like a fancy purse!"

            At times, Celsia hits me for no apparent reason.  She gets red-faced and just strikes out, hits my knuckles with a hammer to make the skin curl away.  And she doesn’t even care about her new baby lying crooked on the table.

            I’m raw inside, my cunt feels like sandpaper meat on the walls, crunchy knives coming out.  Spiders appear on me sometimes to eat scabs from me, take pieces of my neck.

            Sometimes Celsia gets mad at the sun for never shining and runs outside, throws a hammer into the air at it.  But it never flies higher than a dozen feet before falling, a thud on the ground sending particles of green and orange dust into clouds.

            She doesn’t touch her razor wire pubic hair at all during the orange-frustration moments.  As if it is not as intense to touch anymore.  She treats it like grass or normal head hair instead of sharp flesh-slicing metal that her nerves -- and mine -- usually quiver to.  Even the deepest cuts on the inside of her thighs aren’t enough to excite her.

            On these days, the people in the attic speak in whispers in the shape of rose bushes, thorns hooking into my brain, cutting delicately along the veiny lines clustered amongst the plump tubes under skull.

            Celsia doesn’t seem to hear them, as if her brain has been washed of their sound, even when they hit high pitches her ears do not rise or twitch like mine, ignoring them until they are numb-nothingness to her. 

            She is bleeding on the ground, resting her legs from her bush, her tender parts open to the tangy air.  If she calls me over, I know it’s because she wants a painful fuck, sex as a weapon.

            The Sister does acrobats on the ceiling.  She calls it her exercises, but doesn’t tell me how she gets up there and doesn’t fall.  The melty baby lies on the floor underneath and doesn’t say anything or do anything.  It just sits there and complains about how ugly it is. 

            When the Sister sweats, it drips like rain onto my dinner plate and onto the wiggling baby/thing, the vaginas covering her body become soggy for my services, penetrating eyes at me as she bends backwards, folding herself into halves.

            Celsia doesn’t know the Sister uses me at night, sneaking fucks there and here, and the Sister makes me keep it a secret.  She knows Celsia wouldn’t let her waste my energy on anyone without her presence.

            Right now, Celsia is on the roof, making sure the rapists do not attack.  She has been afraid of them ever since the baby was born.  The rapists move like wolves, searching for things to fuck and eat, sometimes fucking and eating each other if they have to, but raping strangers is much more fun than incest.

            The Sister bridges her back to drip vagina juices onto my forehead, into my eyes, and when I glance up she bursts laughter.  Then grabs my arms, pulls me up into her web, tucking my body firmly between her legs to hold me quiet and prisoner.

            I don’t like the baby.  It just sits there and collects greasy spots, makes a home for hungry insects that want to tunnel through its limbs.  All the healthy meat was ripped off of my body to feed this sack of jiggle-flesh, such a waste of my self.  I am in pain at nights because of my sacrifice to this child and it does not thank me ever.  It doesn’t even have the decency to stop being so deformed and ugly, nor does it ever stop complaining about its repulsive looks.

            It’s like the bloated blubber of a drowned pig with eyes, hands, a foot, and a soggy black mouthhole covered in hair.  And it never wants to play black tarantula or spot zombies in the garden.  It just complains and complains, sometimes sleeps or sucks on Celsia’s tits, which oftentimes makes me jealous.

            Why did Celsia purchase my body to make children if this is the type of product we would bring into the world?  How can it expect to ever be loved by anyone, even its parents, when it looks so ugly?  If all babies came out this way, no childhood would ever work out right, nor any adulthood. 

            The world would be all illness.

            I am made from illness.

Something Living inside of Cunts

            "The rapists have taken the village," says a fishy bald girl at the door, teeth chipped spicy with sores in her eyes, speaking lightning words, a breast dangling out a tear in her brown-bloody shirt.  "It was a massacre of sex.  They fucked and fucked and fucked, raped everyone to death with knives."

            "Are they headed this way?" Celsia asks.

            "I don’t know.  I ran and ran and ran."

            "Get inside with me," Celsia ripping the tiny woman out of the outside, peaking the distance then closing the door.

            "Watch them," Celsia tells her Sister who curls down from the ceiling.  "I’m going to warn the council." And she straps spiky armor to her shoulders and disappears out the door, too quickly to think of shutting it behind her. 

            The Sister gone from the room already, bored, gone to practice tattoo-art on the blubber-ball of child.

            Wind knocking the door against the side of the house as it enters, knocking, slamming/knocking.  And from my chains I watch the young woman shivering, eyes-locked at the open doorway, haunted landscape trying to creep inside, drool fizzing down her chin to puddle between her nervous breasts, teeth clenched, her bald head stained with sticky liquid.  I crawl her pulsing parts with my sight, intrigued by a woman who is actually weaker than me, could be dominated by me.  And then she catches me staring at her and stares back until I look away, and then she eyes me up and down, sees my cocks hard and red, and I feel dominated by her, simply by the power of her glare at me.  Yes, even though she is much smaller, she could still put me in my place.