Lately I’ve been hesitant to publish the disturbing stories I’ve been working on.
They keep ending up in a Private file for being too dark or bizarre. I should rename that file I Need Therapy.
I’ve been reading stories by Liao Yiwu and Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer before drifting off to sleep late at night. And then having grotesque nightmares about animal cruelty and unnatural sex acts.
Now add that to my current state of being aroused while sitting here conjuring up lustful memories…
Yeah, that’s just a recipe for weirdness and twisted sexual fantasies, true and imagined. I keep telling myself, Knock it off Cerise, you wanna turn people on, not creep them and yourself out.
And so right now I feel a bit disgusted by my present grotesque frame of mind.
*Speaking of… Everyone reading this should check out the artwork of Sun Yuan and Peng Yu. Scroll down below my story and click on those links.
As sexually-fixated as anyone could imagine I am… I still frequently fantasize about the life of a bhikkhuni (female Buddhist monk) and envy them quite often. I realize that probably sounds ridiculous. But I’m actually quite sincere about that.
At any rate, my life is a whole ‘nother world from the life of a monastic.
This past Saturday night fit so snuggly into the Fear and Loathing in Nashvegas chapter of my life that I need to express it. I’m kind of blogging in lieu of group therapy these days. It cuts out on the commute.
Last Thursday I received this dreadful message from a childhood friend named Staci:
Lana’s birthday is Saturday. Joline is joining us. Rest up cuz we’re coming, baby. And Hell’s coming with us.
A borderline-alcoholic Southern Baptist, who frequents biker bars, quoting Tombstone makes me nervous.
The four of us have known one another since early childhood but haven’t spent much time together since grade school. And there’s a reason for that. We have very little in common.
Two of them, Staci and Lana, are sisters who lived across the street from me when I was a three-foot ragamuffin. Jolie is their younger cousin, and still a ragamuffin.
So Saturday night these three “southern belles” arrived in a giant black truck, dressed in very short, stretchy, bright-colored dresses, already reeking of whiskey, thrilled to whisk me off to somewhere formidable like a smokey tavern full of ultra-proud American patriots drowning themselves in piss beer and bobbing to country rock, whatever that is.
I slipped into a short, nude-colored babydoll dress… Oops. Had I used an ounce of foresight I would’ve opted for jeans, a loose teeshirt and perhaps a bag for my head. If I could have (and I should have) predicted being thrust into a crowd of half-cocked hooligans and ogres wearing a lot of plaid, college football shirts with caps worn backwards.
But I was stuck. Because it was Lana’s birthday and I know that she loves me, a lot.
I mean… she cried when I moved away and cries that I won’t be staying.
She’s like a sister who I have nothing much in common with besides history and love.
You know how it goes with old childhood friends. It goes like this.
In the first tavern we entered was a hairy guy in a netted muscle shirt, wearing out a long-winded, whiney guitar solo until Jolie loudly objected, “Damn! Enough already!” And I hid my smile but praised her inwardly when he stopped instantly.
Then the singer shoots ME the dirty look and retorts, “Alright. Whad’da YOU wanna hear?!”
That was a mistake because naturally I’ll respond with some fluff like, “Hm. Can you guys improvise something… ya know, like Ratatat? You know Ratatat? Ghostland Observatory? No. Well, that looks like a nice synthesizer over there… Maybe some kinda funky robotic dance stuff.” –which only earned me a nasty look of disapproval.
“Um. Iggy? The Pixies? Bowie! How about The Gambler by Kenny Rogers.”
At any rate… none of my suggestions mattered and shots of tequila began pouring in from the over-sized men surrounding us.
After a few shots Jolie disappeared then reappeared out on the dance floor “twerking” her big Kim Kardashian-esque butt in a tight little pale pink dress to a Prince cover song.
Then she climbs onto the stage and begins gyrating into a full squat, several times, so we all catch glimpses of her black thonged crotch, then spins around to flex her buttcheeks, squeezing right-left-right-left, in synchronicity to the bassy parts of the song.
And Staci was yelling, “Cerise! Pull her down from there!” (she’s always been bossy) and I just said, “Nope. Not a chance.” I admired that Jolie’s spirit.
She’s almost always been wily, embarrassing the hell out of her two cousins. Although, she’s been to jail several times over her ridiculous exploits, including public indecency, a few DUIs, fighting and refusal to pay speeding tickets.
As I recall, several years ago she left jail with her waist-length blonde hair in cornrows and told me later, “This girl says to me, “Bitch, wait. I’ma turn you out. You gonna love lickin’ my pussy.” and Jolie replied, “Girl, just shut up and braid my hair. Maybe, if you do a good ‘nough job, I just might.”
She used to be this sweet, tag-a-long little sister type who begged to ride her bike with us. She was chubby and cherub-faced. So innocent and affectionate. But that changed drastically around middle school age.
I heard she was bullied pretty severely, much like myself for a brief time.
However, I was lucky enough to be sent away. Little Jolie wasn’t as lucky.
And now, here we are. She had me pinned into the corner of the latrine, telling me terrible things about Lana’s husband while attempting to feed my nose a giant clump of white powder from the end of her long, silvery pinky nail. She kept trying although I had pinched my nose closed as she persisted, jabbing my upper lip until she spilled it all over my mouth, chin and dress. And then I grabbed her wrist. “Jolie, dammit… finish the story. Good god.”
Unfortunately, I think her stories are true and so disheartening that it was sobering me up to a grim state of melancholy. It makes me sad that their station in life hadn’t improved over the years. And Lana obviously doesn’t want to accept certain truths.
I went outside into the rain in order to retain a bit more clarity and then I see the only Asian guy I’ve seen all day (or week, probably) run up under the awning behind me.
He says to me, “It’s beginning to rain pretty hard. You might wanna wanna come back inside.”
And I said, “Not really. I’m not all that into this place.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Rain doesn’t bother me. That music and crowd does.” I grumbled, standing there getting soaked and looking pitiful and a bit pathetic. Just standing there in the rain pouting like that.
He gave me a sympathetic look and said, “I think you’d have a better time on the east side. Five-corners is much better than this area.”
I abandoned looking pitiful and joined him under the awning. We could actually see one another now and I noticed that he was pretty cute with a boyish face and a shaved head. He was several inches taller than myself.
I was suddenly just standing there smiling at him rather boldly and he broke eye contact, although continuing to smile.
“You’re welcome to go there with me… to just catch a ride there. I’m heading over there soon.”
He’s reminding me of my friend Eric, who’s Chinese, and always so very polite. Always a gentleman. I’m already assuming this guy is Chinese, very polite and sweet. But maybe I’m wrong. Sweet, boyish faces can be deceptive.
“Thanks but I’m stuck here. My friends are inside. It’s a birthday thing.” I said, shrugging.
And then Staci walks up behind me yelling “Cerise! Damn girl, I was looking everywhere.” Dismissing the conversation I was having because she’s always done that whenever she sees me with a guy, as though I was still twelve years old. She’s five years older with a “big sister” complex. See what I mean? Bossy.
So, I reluctantly wave goodbye to him and return to honky tonk Hell.
A bit later a guy resembling Tobey Maguire approaches, stops in front of me with his hands on his hips, smiling coyly… until his friend practically slides into the side of him on que, “Hi! Have you met Chad?” ( like a couple’a cartoon characters)
He was flashing these big sky blue eyes at me, grinning from ear to ear, attempting to pull off the whole cute and innocent routine. And he was super clean cut in a button-up shirt tucked into his jeans, kinda like a cop. But he was too silly to be a cop. Probably.
I offered Chad a seat because he seemed nice, at least nicer than the men flooding us with tequila earlier. And just as he settled in under the warm light over the loveseat, I said something stupid like, “You look a lot like Tobey Maguire.”
My ridiculous friends were giving me the shamefully over-zealous “Go ahead” gesture as I tried not to look at them, afraid to see a thumbs-up.
I noticed that the Asian guy I was talking to earlier had come in and sat down at the bar, alone. He was soaked. His white teeshirt was stuck to him and I see that he has a nicely muscled back. And I felt a little sorry for him, thinking maybe his plans had fallen through.
But part of me wished that Zhang were sitting there beside me, instead of Chad.
If he were we would’ve snuck into an alley already.
He would kiss me softly and deeply, letting me put my hand down the front of his pants to feel the satiny skin of his cock. And I would’ve gotten him hard and ended up sucking him in the shadows as he moaned, cradling my head sweetly.
And he would cum a lot, finishing in my mouth.
And, if he were Zhang, those bright blue eyes wouldn’t sparkle. They would be so dark in this light that they’d appear to be as black as onyx.
I decided that I should nicely take my leave. So I said, “Hey Chad, I’m really sorry… but there’s an old friend over there I’ve been meaning to talk to.”
He employed the wounded puppy look, which probably works most of the time, but not with me. And so I politely bid my farewell then made my way to the bar, although I’m generally a light drinker, actually.
I hopped up on the stool next to my new friend. (I truly have little shame or hesitance when it comes to flirting. I wish more Asian men were like me –Or not– Yeah, nevermind. I take that back.)
I let him notice me sitting there first, however transparent I was being.
And it was pretty obvious that he didn’t belong there either.
—Continued to Part II
* Artwork of Sun Yuan and Peng Yu