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lover_for_a_fee
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Location: New Jersey, United States
Birthday: 4/12/1987
Gender: Female
Interests: playing guitar, writing, photography, making clothes, bags, etc etc.. designing in general, going to shows, listening to music, being a fucking pain in the ass, having intelligent conversations, nightwalks, being smarter and way cooler than you.. ;D
Expertise: does anybody really have one of those?
AIM: flawednarcissist
yahoo: slash_my_veins
ICQ: 320445415
Message: message me
Member Since:
10/8/2003
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| Inhale.
Take in as much air as you can. This story should
last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little
bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.
A friend of mine, when
he was 13 years old he heard about "pegging." This is when a guy gets
banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard
enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At
that age, this friend's a little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a
better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some
petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures
how it's going to look at the supermarket checkout counter, the lonely
carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the
grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching.
Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.
So my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.
Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.
At
home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with
grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing
happens except it hurts.
Then, this kid, his mom yells it's supper time. She says to come down, right now.
He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.
After
dinner, he goes to find the carrot, and it's gone. All his dirty
clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry.
No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring
knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.
This
friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his
folks to confront him. And they nev¬er do. Ever. Even now that he's
grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner,
every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents'
grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them. That
something too awful to name.
People in France have a phrase:
"staircase wit." In French: esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment
when you find the answer, but it's too late. Say you're at a par¬ty and
someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with
everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave
the party....
As you start down the stairway, then-magic. You
come up with the perfect thing you should've said. The perfect
crippling put-down.
That’s the spirit of the stairway.
The
trouble is, even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid things
you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you
actually think or do.
Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.
Looking
back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the
last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off.
Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around their kid's neck,
the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid dead. Dead
sperm every¬where. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants
on their kid. They made it look ... better. Intentional at least. The
regular kind of sad teen suicide.
Another friend of mine, a kid
from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle
East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in
some camel country where the public market sells what could be fancy
letter openers. Each fancy tool is just a thin rod of pol¬ished brass
or silver, maybe as long as your hand, with a big tip at one end,
ei¬ther a big metal ball or the kind of fan¬cy carved handle you'd see
on a sword. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard
and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner.
They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much
better. More intense.
It's this big brother who travels around the world, sending back French phrases. Russian phrases. Helpful jack-off tips.
After
this, the little brother, one day he doesn't show up at school. That
night, he calls to ask if I'll pick up his homework for the next couple
weeks. Because he's in the hospital.
He's got to share a room
with old people getting their guts worked on. He says how they all have
to share the same television. All he's got for privacy is a curtain.
His folks don't come and visit. On the phone, he says how right now his
folks could just kill his big brother in the Navy.
On the phone,
the kid says how-the day before-he was just a little stoned. At home in
his bedroom, he was flopped on the bed. He was lighting a candle and
flipping through some old porno magazines, getting ready to beat off.
This is after he's heard from his Navy brother. That helpful hint about
how Arabs beat off. The kid looks around for something that might do
the job. A ballpoint pen's too big. A pencil's too big and rough. But
dripped down the side of the candle, there's a thin, smooth ridge of
wax that just might work. With just the tip of one finger, this kid
snaps the long ridge of wax off the candle. He rolls it smooth between
the palms of his hands. Long and smooth and thin.
Stoned and
horny, he slips it down inside, deeper and deeper into the piss slit of
his boner. With a good hank of the wax still poking out the top, he
gets to work.
Even now, he says those Arab guys are pretty damn
smart. They've totally reinvented jacking off. Flat on his back in bed,
things are getting so good, this kid can't keep track of the wax. He's
one good squeeze from shooting his wad when the wax isn't sticking out
anymore.
The thin wax rod, it's slipped inside. All the way
inside. So deep inside he can't even feel the lump of it inside his
piss tube.
From downstairs, his mom shouts it's supper time. She
says to come down, right now. This wax kid and the carrot kid are
different people, but we all live pretty much the same life.
It's
after dinner when the kid's guts start to hurt. It's wax, so he figured
it would just melt inside him and he'd pee it out. Now his back hurts.
His kid¬neys. He can't stand straight.
This kid talking on the phone from his hospital bed, in the background you can hear bells ding, people scream¬ing. Game shows.
The
X-rays show the truth, some¬thing long and thin, bent double inside his
bladder. This long, thin V inside him, it's collecting all the minerals
in his piss. It's getting bigger and rougher, coated with crystals of
calci¬um, it's bumping around, ripping up the soft lining of his
bladder, blocking his piss from getting out. His kidneys are backed up.
What little that leaks out his dick is red with blood.
This kid
and his folks, his whole fam¬ily, them looking at the black X-ray with
the doctor and the nurses stand¬ing there, the big V of wax glowing
white for everybody to see, he has to tell the truth. The way Arabs get
off. What his big brother wrote him from the Navy.
On the phone, right now, he starts to cry.
They paid for the bladder operation with his college fund. One stupid mis¬take, and now he'll never be a lawyer.
Sticking
stuff inside yourself. Stick¬ing yourself inside stuff. A candle in
your dick or your head in a noose, we knew it was going to be big
trouble.
What got me in trouble, I called it Pearl Diving. This
meant whacking off underwater, sitting on the bottom at the deep end of
my parents' swimming pool. With one deep breath, I'd kick my way to the
bottom and slip off my swim trucks. I'd sit down there for two, three,
four minutes.
Just from jacking oft' I had huge lung capacity.
If I had the house to myself, I'd do this all afternoon. After I'd
finally pump out my stuff, my sperm, it would hang there in big, fat,
milky gobs.
After that was more diving, to catch it all. To
collect it and wipe each hand¬ful in a towel. That's why it was called
Pearl Diving. Even with chlorine, there was my sister to worry about.
Or, Christ almighty, my mom.
That used to be my worst fear in
the world: my teenage virgin sister, think¬ing she's just getting fat,
then giving birth to a two-headed, retard baby. Both heads looking just
like me. Me, the father and the uncle. In the end, it's never what you
worry about that gets you.
The best part of Pearl Diving was the
inlet port for the swimming pool filter and the circulation pump. The
best part was getting naked and sit¬ting on it.
As the French
would say, Who doesn't like getting their butt sucked? Still, one
minute you're just a kid getting off, and the next minute you'll never
be a lawyer.
One minute I'm settling on the pool bottom and the
sky is wavy, light blue through eight feet of water above my head. The
world is silent except for the heartbeat in my ears. My yellow¬striped
swim trunks are looped around my neck for safe keeping, just in case a
friend, a neighbor, anybody shows up to ask why I skipped foot¬ball
practice. The steady suck of the pool inlet hole is lapping at me and
I'm grinding my skinny white ass around on that feeling.
One
minute I've got enough air and my dick's in my hand. My folks are gone
at their work and my sister's got ballet. Nobody's supposed to be home
for hours.
My hand brings me right to getting off, and I stop. I
swim up to catch an¬other big breath. I dive down and settle on the
bottom.
I do this again and again.
This must be why girls
want to sit on your face. The suction is like taking a dump that never
ends. My dick hard and getting my butt eaten out, I do not need air. My
heartbeat in my ears, I stay under until bright stars of light start
worming around in my eyes. My legs straight out, the back of each knee
rubbed raw against the concrete bot¬tom. My toes are turning blue, my
toes and fingers wrinkled from being so long in the water.
And
then I let it happen. The big white gobs start spouting. The pearls.
It's then I need some air. But when I go to kick off against the
bottom, I can't. I can't get my feet under me. My ass is stuck.
Emergency
paramedics will tell you that every year about 150 people get stuck
this way, sucked by a circulation pump. Get your long hair caught, or
your ass, and you're going to drown. Every year, tons of people do.
Most of them in Florida.
People just don't talk about it. Not
even French people talk about everything. Getting one knee up, getting
one foot tucked under me, I get to half standing when I feel the tug
against my butt. Get¬ting my other foot under me, I kick off against
the bottom. I'm kicking free, not touching the concrete, but not
getting to the air, either.
Still kicking water, thrashing with
both arms, I'm maybe halfway to the surface but not going higher. The
heartbeat in¬side my head getting loud and fast.
The bright
sparks of light crossing and crisscrossing my eyes, I turn and look
back ... but it doesn't make sense. This thick rope, some kind of
snake, blue¬white and braided with veins, has come up out of the pool
drain and it's holding on to my butt. Some of the veins are leaking
blood, red blood that looks black underwater and drifts away from
little rips in the pale skin of the snake. The blood trails away,
disappearing in the water, and inside the snake's thin, blue¬white skin
you can see lumps of some half-digested meal.
That's the only
way this makes sense. Some horrible sea monster, a sea serpent,
something that's never seen the light of day, it's been hiding in the
dark bottom of the pool drain, waiting to eat me.
So ...I kick
at it, at the slippery, rub¬bery knotted skin and veins of it, and more
of it seems to pull out of the pool drain. It's maybe as long as my leg
now, but still holding tight around my butt¬hole. With another kick,
I'm an inch closer to getting another breath. Still feeling the snake
tug at my ass, I'm an inch closer to my escape.
Knotted inside
the snake, you can see corn and peanuts. You can see a long
bright-orange ball. It's the kind of horse¬pill vitamin my dad makes me
take, to help put on weight. To get a football scholarship. With extra
iron and omega¬three fatty acids.
It's seeing that vitamin pill that saves my life.
It's
not a snake. It's my large intestine, my colon pulled out of me. What
doctors call prolapsed. It's my guts sucked into the drain.
Paramedics
will tell you a swimming pool pump pulls 80 gallons of water every
minute. That's about 400 pounds of pressure. The big problem is we're
all connected together inside. Your ass is just the far end of your
mouth. If I let go, the pump keeps working-unravel¬ing my insides-until
it's got my tongue. Imagine taking a 400-pound shit and you can see how
this might turn you inside out.
What I can tell you is your guts
don't feel much pain. Not the way your skin feels pain. The stuff
you're digesting, doctors call it fecal matter. Higher up is chyme,
pockets of a thin, runny mess studded with corn and peanuts and round
green peas.
That's all this soup of blood and corn, shit and
sperm and peanuts floating around me. Even with my guts unravel¬ing out
my ass, me holding on to what's left, even then my first want is to
some¬how get my swimsuit back on.
God forbid my folks see my dick.
My
one hand holding a fist around my ass, my other hand snags my
yellow¬striped swim trunks and pulls them from around my neck. Still,
getting into them is impossible.
You want to feel your
intestines, go buy a pack of those lambskin condoms. Take one out and
unroll it. Pack it with peanut butter. Smear it with petroleum jelly
and hold it under water. Then try to tear it. Try to pull it in half.
It's too tough and rubbery. It's so slimy you can't hold on.
A lambskin condom, that's just plain old intestine.
You can see what I'm up against.
You let go for a second and you're gutted.
You swim for the surface, for a breath, and you're gutted.
You don't swim and you drown.
It's a choice between being dead right now or a minute from right now.
What
my folks will find after work is a big naked fetus, curled in on
itself. Floating in the cloudy water of their backyard pool. Tethered
to the bottom by a thick rope of veins and twisted guts. The opposite
of a kid hanging himself to death while he jacks off. This is the baby
they brought home from the hospital 13 years ago. Here's the kid they
hoped would snag a football schol¬arship and get an MBA. Who'd care for
them in their old age. Here's all their hopes and dreams. Floating
here, naked and dead. All around him, big milky pearls of wasted sperm.
Either
that or my folks will find me wrapped in a bloody towel, collapsed
halfway from the pool to the kitchen tele¬phone, the ragged, torn scrap
of my guts still hanging out the leg of my yellow¬striped swim trunks.
What even the French won't talk about.
That
big brother in the Navy, he taught us one other good phrase. A Russian
phrase. The way we say, "I need that like I need a hole in my head...,"
Russian people say, "I need that like I need teeth in my asshole......
Mne eto nado kak zuby v zadnitse.
Those
stories about how animals caught in a trap will chew off their leg,
well, any coyote would tell you a couple bites beats the hell out of
being dead.
Hell ... even if you're Russian, someday you just might want those teeth.
Otherwise,
what you have to do is¬you have to twist around. You hook one elbow
behind your knee and pull that leg up into your face. You bite and snap
at your own ass. You run out of air and you will chew through anything
to get that next breath.
It's not something you want to tell a
girl on the first date. Not if you expect a kiss good night. If I told
you how it tasted, you would never, ever again eat calamari.
It's
hard to say what my parents were more disgusted by: how I'd got in
trou¬ble or how I'd saved myself. After the hospital, my mom said, "You
didn't know what you were doing, honey. You were in shock." And she
learned how to cook poached eggs.
All those people grossed out or feeling sorry for me....
I need that like I need teeth in my asshole.
Nowadays,
people always tell me I look too skinny. People at dinner parties get
all quiet and pissed off when I don't eat the pot roast they cooked.
Pot roast kills me. Baked ham. Anything that hangs around inside my
guts for longer than a couple of hours, it comes out still food.
Home-cooked lima beans or chunk light tuna fish, I'll stand up and find
it still sitting there in the toilet.
After you have a radical
bowel resec¬tioning, you don't digest meat so great. Most people, you
have five feet of large intestine. I'm lucky to have my six inch¬es. So
I never got a football scholarship. Never got an MBA. Both my friends,
the wax kid and the carrot kid, they grew up, got big, but I've never
weighed a pound more than I did that day when I was 13.
Another
big problem was my folks paid a lot of good money for that swim¬ming
pool. In the end my dad just told the pool guy it was a dog. The family
dog fell in and drowned. The dead body got pulled into the pump. Even
when the pool guy cracked open the filter casing and fished out a
rubbery tube, a watery hank of intestine with a big orange vita¬min
pill still inside, even then my dad just said, "That dog was fucking
nuts."
Even from my upstairs bedroom window, you could hear my dad say, "We couldn't trust that dog alone for a second...."
Then my sister missed her period.
Even
after they changed the pool water, after they sold the house and we
moved to another state, after my sister's abortion, even then my folks
never men¬tioned it again.
Ever.
That is our invisible carrot.
You. Now you can take a good, deep breath.
I still have not.
----------------------------------------
that was "Guts" by Chuck Palahniuk.
hope you enjoyed. :)
| | |
| for once instead of being miserable and comparing my pain to others
or thinking that no one else can feel as shitty as i feel
i see the world through rose colored glasses
and i want to fix everything.
it kills me that siobhan, erin, and sarah put on a happy face
when they dont feel all that great on the inside sometimes.
i wish i could make everything ok.
it kills me that pam's sick
and stressed out
which just makes things worse.
i wish i could buy her a vacation
and make everything better.
it kills me that keith cant face his addictions
and is miserable cuz he was caught.
i wish i could make him stronger.
it kills me that my little brother is unsure of himself
when he is smart, loving, adorable, and beautiful.
i dont care that doctors think he has a learning disability
he's my brother and i know he doesnt.
i wish i could make the teasing stop.
it kills me that there is a rift in my friends
that grows larger and larger
everyday.
i wish i could go back to when we were all close.
it kills me that in a few months i'll graduate
then go to college
and might never see these people again.
i may never see pam more than a few times a year.
i wish i could be little again.
i wish i could deal with all of this.
i wish it didnt have to happen so soon.
i wish i could be stronger for everyone.
i try.
i do.
i wish i could help... | | |
| so new hampshire was exciting!
left thursday morning at around 9:30... didnt get on the road till 10... saw a giant barge named the pamela, got excited and called pam to tell her. passed out in the car like i always do. when i woke up, we were in conneticut, god i hate that state. passed out again and woke up in vermont. we made it to keene state college in keene, new hampshire right on time at 3. now, the campus is really olden-timey and nice. the students were all hippies and/or punk rock. which i thought was weird. hah, there was this guy in a tie-dye shirt carrying around a bong, it was crazy. i was interviewed and when i got to know more about the school, i didnt really like it. i didnt feel at home at all. so after walking around the campus for awhile and feeling really uncomfortable, i convinced my parents to leave. now, keene new hampshire is the biggest city in the state.. and it only has 30,000 people in it, and most of them are farmers... so it's weird and stuff cuz the "city" is just a town... but whatever. so then we drove back to vermont to stay in brattleboro which is just like red bank, but three times the size.. and our hotel was an old barn, they had the silos and everything. then we went out to eat at this pizza place and the food was pretty good.. except the waitress punched me and i dont know why... then we went back to the hotel and stuff... watched the day after tomorrow and then we watched some cartoons.. then i went to bed.. and my bed was like 6 feet off the ground, it had a ladder to get into it and my face was almost touching the ceiling. haha.. and james' cot was really squeaky and stuff. then we all woke up at 8 and stuff... had some breakfast... it tasted gross.. stupid breakfast.. then we headed over to franklin pierce college in rindge, new hampshire... oh, so wonderful... it's 20 minutes away from the nearest town, which is keene.. and it's on a lake and has the prettiest campus, ever.. they have a boathouse, a glassblowing shed, lounges everywhere, really nice dorms, a bar, state-of-the-art everything, and everyday they have a new band, comedian, magician, hypnotist, etc scheduled to come and entertain the campus. they have kids from england, australia, norway, sweden, and france.. and you can study abroad in london or in australia. so after my tour, which was led by the coolest, gayest guy ever, clarence, i met with a guidance counselor. and after talking to him for about an hour, he decided that the school really wants me and if i applied, they'd give me a $10,000 scholarship for being smart and possibly a $6,000 scholarship for being a musician... which is almost half the tuition cuz it's over $30,000... =\.. but yeah.. so it was awesome.. then we drove home and got stuck in traffic so it took like a buhjillion hours.
then as soon as i got home, will called and came over. lemme tell you, the lip piercing is hot.<3. then we picked up pam.. then went to the diner... thennn drove around.. called keith, he was busy.. so we called chris friel... and we FINALLY got him to tell us his real address.. so we went to his house in stupid old bridge.. haha... it was fun... he's sooo weird. man, he's awesome. but yeah.. will got pulled over in his crazy truck of crazyness. thennn i took pam home.. thennn i went to sleep... thennn myke called... then i think he went to get high.. then i went back to sleep.
had work today. it blew as usual, except i got to work with marie for most of the day, so that was fun cuz she can be cool. i have a new coworker, her name's kelly and she's sam's little sister. she seems alright, nervous, but alright. work's slowly ruining my life day by day... well, it's gonna ruin my weekends as a senior in high school.. now i get to work friday AND saturday. fuck me up the ass. jesus... i hate you so much, barbara!!!
anywho... i'm really tired. mebbe i should nap.
mebbe.
<3 | | |
| so i'm off to new hampshire.
i'll be back soon enough.
if you miss me, call my cellphone. :) | | |
| stop right where you fucking are.
just...
stop.
i know you're afraid to see yourself for what you are.
i know you dont like mirrors cuz you have to look yourself in the eye, and you cant look other people in the eye...
so how can you face yourself?
do me a favor.
will you?
for however much you love me, do me this favor.
go look in a mirror.
take a good, long damn look in a mirror.
you'll see two eyes, a nose, a mouth, some hair, ears, cheeks, a jaw, a neck, shoulders, a chest, arms, and if you look down further you'll see a tummy, hips, and legs.
maybe there are some imperfections.
maybe you have a little gap in your teeth.
maybe your nose isnt how you want it.
maybe your ears are too big for your liking.
maybe your eyes are a little dead looking from a little too much partying.
but do you realize how beautiful all of that is?
do you even comprehend that i love you for those things?
i love you for everything you dont like about yourself.
so maybe those things arent so bad.
maybe all your imperfections are what make you perfect.
maybe all those funny little things about you are what make you beautiful.
so you dont like yourself all that much sometimes.
well you know what? i like you all the time.
and you know what else? you're cute, funny, smart, caring, honest, interesting, sexy, amazing, beautiful, humble, deep, and competely utterly wonderful.
<3 | | |
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