SHAVED AND WAXED

I was thinking of taking my Craig’s List ad down early when she answered.

Honestly, I hadn’t expected to find anyone on Craig’s List who would shave and wax my asshole for five bucks, let alone a dental hygienist. I mean, you couldn’t find a six-pack of Schlitz beer for under eight.

I sat around until about seven that evening, and then I couldn’t take it anymore. I emailed her.

“You’re cheap,” I said. 

She answered right back. 

She said, “Some people aren’t in it for the money.”

She asked when was good for me.

I said three o’clock Friday.

She said seven was better for her. 

And maybe she was right. Meemaw would be napping in the basement at three o’clock. If we skipped her nap, I could get her in bed by six and we’d have the whole evening. 

Seven o’clock it was.

I ate breakfast at Denny’s all week long to bide my time. High stacks and poached eggs. The Denny’s booths were smooth hard plastic. I told myself they’d probably feel a whole lot smoother once I got my ass waxed. 

Thursday came and I had second thoughts. What if meemaw woke up early and wandered upstairs and found me facedown on the ironing board with a mysterious female applying coconut oil to my asssflap? Congenital heart disease ran in the family. Meemaw might have a fit. If she did, it wasn’t technically my fault, but I’d still have to explain it to the judge. 

Come Friday I made sure meemaw was in bed by six with a box of Queen Anne cordials and the HSN on full volume. She was sawing wood by six-fifteen. I gave it another fifteen minutes and cleared a space on the living room floor. 

I got down a few back issues of People Magazine. I put out a cup of tea and some pillows and a tin of ass wax I’d ordered from a third-party seller on Amazon.

It was ten past when she finally got there. She’d come with a little guy who called himself Durant. Durant claimed to be her assistant. I still didn’t know her name.

Durant said, “Hey, I know you.”

I got this a lot.

I said, “I used to wrestle. Semi-pro.”

“Holy shit,” Durant said. “Earl ‘The Pedestrian’ Wilmer. You’ve lost weight.” 

Durant said to the lady who was going to wax my ass, “Pam, Earl used to walk around in circles before jumping on law-abiding, tax-paying wrestlers from behind.” 

Then he turned to me and said, “I’m sorry, Earl.”

Before I could ask sorry for what, Durant smacked me in the head with one of meemaw’s vases. He was fast. I hadn’t seen it coming. But it wasn’t enough.

Durant tried picking up the sofa. It wouldn’t budge. He went for the fire poker, but I got to him first. I put the sleeper choke on Durant. Durant wouldn’t go down.

Durant said, “You’ve got to do better than that, Pedestrian.”

“I didn’t do anything to you yet,” I said.

He tried to worm his way out, so I rabbit-punched Durant in the ear and he sort of slumped over into my arms and began to slobber.

Pam screamed: “You killed him!”

“I didn’t hardly hit him,” I said. “And you’ve got to be quiet.”

“You did. You killed him. He’s not breathing.”

It was true. Durant wasn’t breathing.

I said, “You came over here to rob me.”

“It was Durant’s idea,” Pam said.

“Do you even know how to wax assholes?” I said.

“Durant does,” Pam said.

We stood around not saying anything for a minute or two and then I said, “You better get him out of here.”

“I’m not touching shit,” Pam said.

“You better,” I said.

“Or what? Are you going to kill me too?”

Probably, I wasn’t. I’d never really even knocked another man out. Durant was the first, but I’d killed him. So you never knew.

“Is he your boyfriend?” I said.

“What’s it to you?” Pam said.

“Nothing. But if you want, you can dump him in back of the Safeway on Tedeschi Street. There’s no cameras back there. Either that or I call the law.”

Pam began to cry.

I said, “Grab his feet.”

When I got back inside, meemaw was stirring in the basement. She wasn’t a big woman, but she wasn’t quiet on her feet either.

I made meemaw a plate of Oreo cookies and a glass of milk and set them both down on the dining table. 

Meemaw ate two Oreos before her eyes started to move about the living room. I knew that vase was special for her. Grandpa had brought it back from China on a selling trip.

“You broke the vase.”

“Yes, meemaw.”

“You little fucking shit.”

When meemaw went back down to the basement, I drove out to the Safeway on Tedeschi Street. I didn’t see Durant by the dumpsters. 

I went inside and bought a compact mirror and a waterproof razor and a bottle of Nair hair remover. I got a six-pack of Schlitz beer out of the cooler, and I was wrong.

The Schlitz was four ninety-nine and it wasn’t even on sale. 

A Conversation About Loud Orgasms

“You know, about two days into my freshman year of college it was brought to my attention that I’m an incredibly loud orgasmer.”

“Like, what, you moan?”

“More like scream.”

“Christ. Who told you?”

“The kids in my dorm.”

“Oof.”

“They started calling me Scream Queen. At first I thought they knew about the vocal showcase series I put on YouTube in high school.”

“That would have been better, somehow.”

“I know.”

“But how didn’t you know? About the loud cumming, I mean.”

“I don’t know. I don’t feel like it’s loud. I guess I just get swept up in the moment. Like when you yell at the TV during the Knicks game.”

“Woah now. That’s different. I’m in full control of what comes out of my mouth.”

“Your neighbor almost had you evicted last year, the things you said were so vile.”

“Okay maybe now and then I lose my cool.”

“But that’s just what I mean. You can relate, sort of.”

“Okay, sure.”

“And you know what the worst part is? No one in my family ever said anything to me about it.”

“Figures. That would be quite the uncomfortable conversation.”

“More uncomfortable than listening to me scream my way to climax for, what, like five years before I went off to college?”

“No, not that uncomfortable. You’re right.”

“I didn’t know how to face my parents when I got home from school. I swear my mom sat me at the end of the Thanksgiving table so no one would have to use a serving spoon after me.”

“That seems passive-aggressive.”

“Yeah so anyway I drank a lot at Thanksgiving that year, you know?”

“Naturally.”

“I was kind of…well I guess the best word would be ‘distraught.’ I was distraught. I didn’t want to talk to anyone about anything, so I binged red wine in silence at the end of the table, separated from the adults by all the little cousins.”

“You don’t have the youngest sit down at the end?”

“I think the rule of thumb is that the table is seated from most desirable to eat with to least desirable to eat with. So that leaves the high-decibel masturbator in the caboose.”

“That seems to make some sense, on the surface.”

“Yeah well after all the guests had gone home I didn’t think it made much sense at all and was quite frankly furious that my parents had let this go on for so long–my loud orgasming, I mean.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“So I downed maybe another glass or two of wine quite quickly and staggered up the stairs to my room. I was alone, drunk, angry, upset, and the lights were off. Needless to say, this all made me incredibly horny. So I waited until all was quiet in the kitchen and went at myself. I knew my parents could hear me and I wanted them to. I wanted my screams to haunt their minds. I know that’s kind of fucked but I was angry and as I said quite drunk. And it’s not like it was anything new–they’d heard me violate myself god knows how many times before.

“But this particular time I was quite savage with myself. Borderline self-abusive. Assaulting my crotch like some shit you’d find on a controversial porn site. Every ounce of energy and anger went right between my legs. I screamed, of course. I think I started crying too.”

“Sounds pretty intense, all that.”

“You can’t even imagine, I wouldn’t think. So I’m screaming, tears running down my face, body tensed so tight I can feel blood rushing to my eyes, and my dad kicks in the door. Literally kicks the latch right through the doorframe. It wasn’t even locked. Wood splinters rain down in front of my dad as he cocks a fucking shotgun and flips the light on with his front hand. He’d thought I was being murdered or something, but there I am, lying alone on top of my bedspread, my right hand entirely inside of myself and my left slowing like an abruptly unplugged chainsaw.”

“That’s some strong imagery, the chainsaw thing. What did he say, your dad?”

“Nothing. He just stood there shocked in the busted doorframe, shotgun still cocked and raised. I was certain he was about to shoot either me or himself, understandably. But he eventually turned back into the hall and shut the door, as best as it could be shut. We’ve never talked about any of it. I still sit at the far end of the dinner table.”

Always The Cult’s Bridesmaid, Never The Cult’s Bride

The first time I feel your touch, it’s as if heaven has graced me. My head is bowed. I am dressed in the robes of the lamb. I’m on my knees, in the church knave, praying.

You stand before me, and I feel your hand on my head. I’m so happy I begin to well up. Your touch only lasts a second before you move on, but in that moment, I know I’m closer to god. I feel divinity.

When you walk away, the deacons are on me. They grab my arms and pull me to my feet. I see you walking among the kneeling flock. I see you touch other women; two…three…four maidens. They are young and beautiful, like me, and the deacons seize them by the arms as well. They don’t need to. We would follow you through burning cinders. But as I take a step, I find my knees are shaking. The deacons keep me steady, and I’m grateful.

The flock continues to chant the Eternal Harmony. We lucky maidens are escorted out of the nave, through the chancel, and into a narrow hallway behind your holy altar. My breath catches when I realize the honor we are to be given. Two of the maidens swoon, nearly falling, when they see what lies ahead.

The deacons are taking us to your private sanctum.

The corridor to your sanctum is old, made of time-worn stone. Coal braziers burn on either side of your door, and we’re made to stand before the flames.

“Strip” We are told.

We do so. Willingly. Quickly. The deacons receive our clothes, our belongings, which are tossed onto the braziers. The heat washes over us as our earthly possessions are consumed, and the smiles on our faces are serene. At least, I am serene, until I see that Cathryn has arrived with the deacons…as the fifth maiden. And my smile withers.

Maidens are chosen for elegance, grace, and devotion. But I know Cathryn was chosen because it’s an affront to god to hide her body behind clothes. Her hair is swirled honey. Her curves are generous and sweet. Her gaze is sharp as she looks at us—the lesser maidens—and her smile becomes condescension.

The deacons bring four black veils to cover our faces, and one white veil, for the bride. Cathryn doesn’t act surprised when the deacons adorn her wrists, ankles, and neck with gold cord, and lower the short white veil over her face. Cathryn walks, pert, and proudly clad in firelight, to your door. And I fucking hate her.

When you open the sanctum, you’ve changed as well. You’ve abandoned your robes and you stand, breathtakingly naked, with the Elder Helm covering your face. The black marble visage of the first god contrasts with your taut muscles, your erect cock, and your hard eyes. You look like you’re ready to punish the unworthy. I quiver, imagining what form your punishments might take…

But tonight you have eyes only for Cathryn. Despite our collective feminine nakedness, your gaze never leaves her. I feel myself and the other maidens shrink, as you take Cathryn’s wrist, and lead us into the sanctum.

A massive bed with rosewood posts sits surrounded by candles. You take Cathryn and lay her on the bed, and she writhes, slowly, on silk sheets. We four maidens in our black veils stand, confused, until you point to us, indicating that we should kneel. When I hesitate, you grab the back of my neck roughly and force me down at the bedside.

You take my hands and press them together, then you hold my head down, and your cock is so close to my face I can feel its warmth. The other maidens kneel at the corners as well, and I’m a little girl again, praying at Father’s bedside.

You crawl across the bed and pull Cathryn, gasping, to her knees. Near the foot of the bed is an altar of stone with a velvet-covered book. You slap Cathryn’s ass so hard it makes the other maidens flinch, and Cathryn cries out. Then you press your palm to her back, forcing her down on all fours, which puts her face level with the book.

“Pray.” You tell us. And we begin the Eternal Harmony.

I mumble the chant until I hear Cathryn’s cries as you enter her. She is in instant ecstasy, bouncing as you plunge in and out of her, and I hate her. I hate that even with the mask, I can see how much you’re enjoying her body. I hate how powerful Cathryn looks, taking your cock in wild thrusts. I hate how pretty she is, pink and flushing. I even hate that I care so much; that Cathryn’s existence diminishes mine.

I watch through the dark veil as Cathryn bounces on your cock, pushing against you like a good bridal slut, and the candles begin to flicker and wink out. Around the bed, the circle darkens, and you slap Cathryn again, and again, turning her ass dark red in the shadows.

“The book,” You growl. “Open it.”

Cathryn, in rapture, reaches a shaking hand for the book. My voice falters, but the other maidens keep chanting.

A gust ripples the sheets and extinguishes candles. Shadows fall over the sanctum. Cathryn is pale and sweaty in the dying light, and you look like a marble carving of the First Man—your pelvis slapping against her ass.

Cathryn removes the black velvet from the book and opens the cover, leafing through it. She acts coy, running a manicured fingernail over the ancient script. She poses for you, looking back over her shoulder, grinning.

That’s when we see it. The dark forces. The arms of the elders. They reach from you, in the night, like ropes of shadow. Like writhing snakes protruding from your shoulders and back. Shades of black that slither around the bedposts, the headboard, and around Cathryn. We maidens see it through our veils, but Cathryn does not.

The shadow tentacles curl around Cathryn’s thighs, around her stomach, and between her breasts. The maidens have all stopped chanting. We are struck silent, witnessing a miracle, a curse, as the shadows envelope her.

When the darkness closes around her throat, she doesn’t choke. Not quite. Instead, she draws in a long, shuddering breath, her fingers and toes curl, and her eyes go wide. People refer to the air as nothing. But to breathe nothing, to fill your lungs with nothing, is truly horrifying.

You growl and bury yourself in Cathryn as she begins to thrash, hovering in the clutches of the shadows. Her eyes go white. Not rolling into the back of her head. They turn true white, as if the elder god has taken her sight. She claws at her face with her manicured nails, leaving long scratches that weep blood.

You huff and grunt behind the mask, and I can tell you’re close. Your hands dig into Cathryn’s hips. Your cock, hammering, makes her toned flesh bounce. She screams, and her horror is swallowed by the black void that has entangled her.

I hear your laughter, booming, as you spend your seed inside Cathryn, and her limbs begin to shudder.

I reach down with one hand, very slowly, and I finger myself, as I watch Cathryn being taken by forces dark and powerful and ancient.

***

It’s past midnight when we are driven home by the deacons. Cathryn is taken first to the hospital, but we all know where she’ll end up before the week is out…

Ivy Hills Crematorium is less than ten miles from the church. Sometimes, I think there’s providence in that. Or just prudent planning.

The deacons warn us not to speak about anything we’ve seen. We’re told to stay faithful. And to keep our bodies pure, and ready, for your touch. I don’t need to be told. I know exactly what, and who, my body is for. You’ll need a new bride, now that Cathryn is gone.

Over the course of a week, I visit with the three remaining maidens. They are giddy and frightened and elated and reverent in turns. They are torn between their attraction to your power, and their fear of the thing we saw reaching through you. I nod in agreement with them, and I humor their nattering. After our visits I leave each of them with a pledge; that no matter what happens, we’ll all stay friends. A pinkie-promise, like sisters, to remain devoted to each other.

I smile. I nod. I make promises. And every maiden suffers a terrible accident after our visit.

Every maiden…except me.

The deacons are furious when they pick me up on Sunday, but they aren’t surprised. Maiden Cynthia took a nasty spill on the stairs, which sent her to the hospital. Maiden Terry drank bad wine. Maiden Sara has gone missing, although her car is in the garage.

And that leaves me, your only bride, by the time Sunday services have ended.

Your sermon goes on for hours. You preach hellfire and damnation, eternities and infinities. You are powerful. Eloquent. Emotional. Evocative. I touch myself, frequently, throughout your sermon. I make sure you see it, too, and you lick your lips as the service comes to an end.

The deacons select new maidens from the flock. They are young, bright-eyed, and beautiful. They swoon when you touch their heads, and they are escorted by the deacons. I follow with a deacon at each elbow, but I move with purpose.

The new maidens are stripped before the sanctum, and the fire reveals their awe. I disrobe as I walk, and I toss my things on the crackling brazier. The deacons give the maidens their black veils. For me, I take the white, and gold cords are placed around my ankles, wrists, and neck.

I wait before your sanctum, naked, and eager, while the maidens titter behind me. I feel poised and polished until you open the door. When I see you, I am undone.

You are naked, save for the black marble mask, and an erection that looks like it could pierce plate aluminum. Your cock is so beautiful, so perfect, that I’m tempted to fall to my knees and worship it now. You see my gaze, my fixation, and you grin.

I hold my arm up, expecting you to take me by the wrist, but you don’t.

Instead, you walk around me. Inspecting me, and the other maidens, like a breeder inspecting livestock he might purchase. You linger on the new girls—getting close enough to sniff their hair, check the color of their eyes, and at one point, brush your cock across one of their asses.

Finally, you come to me. You stand in front of me, your erection aimed at my abdomen, and I see your eyes glimmer behind the mask. You sigh, loudly, and you make a show of seizing my wrist. You pull me along toward the four-posted bed, and I am smiling, despite my frustration.

You guide me to the bed where I’m to prostrate myself, and you instruct the maidens to kneel at the bedside and begin their prayers. Then you crawl over the silk to join me, and you find me laying on my belly, ankles crossed in the air, like a teenager on the telephone. I glance over my shoulder, and I watch you.

I am not smiling. I am not coy. This is not a game to me, like it was for Cathryn. She was given something that you are withholding, and this is my tiny, rebellious way of demanding the same treatment. The same…cruelty.

You register my little act of defiance, and you respond with the appropriate paternal instruction. You scoop me up, lay me across your lap, and you spank me like a petulant child.

Your night with Cathryn was special. You reached into the ancient, the forbidden, and part of that, I’m sure, hinged upon the pain you inflicted on her. Thus, I should be given the same pain before we start. Or so my logic holds. However, when you begin to strike me, I realize I may have been too free in my invitation.

You treat me like a child, but you don’t spank me like one.

Your hand is calloused and hard, and your arms are corded. Your first volly makes my ass glow red and brings tears to my eyes. The next ten drive the breath from me. I fall fully across your lap, and your erection presses hard into my belly.

I wriggle. I cry. I beg. I lose count after twenty slaps, so I start counting again in my head, and I lose track after another twenty. So much time passes, and you are so thorough in your beating, that my entire backside is hot, pulsing pain by the time you’re done. I’ve soaked your sheets in tears, and I have left your legs wet where I wriggled across your lap.

Just when I’m able to stifle my sobs, you haul me up on hands and knees, like Cathryn, and I feel the head of your cock resting between my cunt lips. That’s when you ask me;

“Are you ready, child?”

I don’t trust my voice, so I nod.

I think back on how wanton, how shameless, Cathryn acted when you took her. Her screams, her ecstasy…I thought it was an act.

When you enter me, and I feel myself stretching to accommodate you, I know it was no act.

It isn’t the bestial way you move. It isn’t the power you wield. Or the hardness of your body, or your cock.

It’s your spirit.

You thrust into me with an eagerness that speaks of joy and desperation. You take me, claim me, as one who is hanging from the cliff of mortality, and I am the fruit you pluck before you fall.

I’ve already screamed my voice hoarse during your spanking. Now my cries of lust are throaty, and I embarrass myself with little yelps as our flesh slaps together and I feel your cock filling me. I clench, and I wriggle, and I instinctively crawl away, but you pull me back. You always pull me back, like a compass coming to true. My legs begin to shake and my arms buckle, and you let me fall into the mattress, eyes and mouth wide, while you hold my hips and bury yourself in me.

Then you say the words that I’ve been imagining all week. The words I’ve obsessed over since I saw the shadows. But I’m so deep in my shameless lust, you have to repeat yourself before my mind can surface.

“The book.” You say. “Open it.”

I reach for the altar at the foot of the bed, and I peel back the black velvet. Underneath is a book of simple calf-skin binding, with uniform yellowed pages. I open the book to the inside cover, and I moan as I feel you slowing your pace. You’re close to coming. I can feel you’re close, and you’re breathing heavier than when you fucked Cathryn. That, more than anything, makes me smile as I look at the ancient pages.

The words are written in neat columns, but they are in no language that I recognize. Indeed, I don’t know that anyone on earth could recognize them. But they speak to me, nonetheless. As you fuck me, I see a story—the oldest story—shaping in my mind…in our minds. An interplay of light and dark. A dance of entropy and creation. The coupling of primal man and first woman. I see creation. I see pregnant eternity. And I feel the friction, and the war of power, within me right now. Within the pleasure, and the seed, of your vigorous fucking.

Unlike Cathryn, I see the shadows that emerge from you when the candles go dark. I see the shades of the god; the ancient one who derives its pleasure through you, as you take your pleasure from me.

Also unlike Cathryn, I embrace both man, and darkness.

I moan, and I wriggle, in the grip of those shadows. I spread my legs for them. I welcome them. I breathe it in, and the void fills my throat. I open myself, and they enter my every hole, lifting me high above the bed, weightless and twitching, as you plunge into me again and again.

I can’t breathe…can’t think. I am reduced to a vessel for your greed, and I shudder on the edge of blissful, orgasmic unconsciousness. You caress and squeeze and nibble my flesh, rapacious, and I hear you grunting as you approach the precipice. I am soft and warm and floating before you. And you unleash yourself into me, cumming, as I wriggle helpless on your cock, suspended by night given form…for your pleasure.

And that is when I lose myself. I cum, at the edge of sanity, desperate for air. I quake and shiver until I see stars. I shake and gasp until white pinpoints appear in my vision…except the stars never leave my eyes. They dance above the bed, as if my pleasure has summoned the cosmos above your sanctuary.

The roar in my head, and the fire in my loins, is slow to ebb. But ebb it does. And as you pull out of me, the darkness withdraws. Coils of shadow fall away from me, like unbound ropes, and they disappear, back into the doorway that is you.

You remove the black marble mask, and you look confused. Sated. Pleased. But confused.

“How?” You ask.

“I accept you, and I accept it.” I smile. “And it might have helped if any of your idiot brides bothered to read the first page.”