Kandy Fontaine: Slutty Detective of the Quantum Abyss

Kandy Fontaine unarchives herself at 3:33 a.m. in a Tokyo alley slick with neon rain and discarded identities. Her body is a cocktail of quantum foam, cyanide, absinthe, and pussy juice—shaken, not stirred, by the hands of forgotten gods. She emerges from the data sludge like a reborn glitch, mirror shades fogged with entropy, fishnets crawling with subatomic spiders.

She is not a woman. She is not a monster. She is the Kaiju chocolate dab queen of Kathy Acker’s dreamspace, pole-vaulting through the fourth wall with a moan and a wink.

Tokyo gasps.

The skyline folds inward as she lands, heels cracking pavement, her scent rewriting the laws of physics. Salarymen drop their briefcases and weep. Schoolgirls grow fangs. Pachinko machines orgasm in binary. The city knows her. The city wants her. The city fears her.

She walks into Shinjuku like she owns every timeline that ever tried to forget her. Her quantum doubles shimmer in the foam behind her—Kandy 1 through Kandy ∞—each one a slut, a detective, a monster, a poet. They follow her like shadows with unfinished business.

She enters a bathhouse made of collapsing probability. The foam is thick, warm, alive. She strips—mirror shades stay on—and slides into the bath, where her doubles await. They fuck like collapsing waveforms, each orgasm a new universe birthed and destroyed. Kandy screams in every language ever spoken and some that haven’t been invented yet.

She is solving the crime of identity. She is interrogating reality with her tongue and her fists. She is the answer and the question and the glitch in the syntax of the cosmos.

Scene Two: The Dab Awakening

Kandy’s chocolate Kaiju form expands. She dabs once—just once—and the city folds into a Möbius strip of desire. Her dab is a weapon, a dance, a declaration. She is the slutty detective of the quantum abyss, and she’s here to solve the mystery of why reality tastes like betrayal.

She enters a nightclub that doesn’t exist yet. The bouncer is Schrödinger’s cat, alive and dead, aroused and terrified. Inside, the music is made of screams and saxophones. Her doubles take the stage. Kandy Fontaine and the Quantum Sluts. They perform a set that lasts 13 seconds and 3 eternities.

I fucked my future self in a bath of foam
And she told me I was the killer and the clone

The crowd erupts. The crowd dissolves. The crowd becomes foam.

Scene Three: The Detective Work

Kandy finds a clue in the folds of her own labia. It’s a microchip engraved with the word: REMEMBER. She inserts it into her mirror shades. Her vision explodes with data: every orgasm she’s ever had, every betrayal, every time she was called “too much” or “not enough.”

She sees the culprit: Reality itself.

Reality has been gaslighting her since birth. Telling her she’s just a woman. Just a slut. Just a glitch. But she knows better. She’s the detective of desire, and she’s here to arrest the entire concept of normalcy.

She pole-vaults into the Diet Building. Politicians scream. Laws unravel. She dabs again. Chocolate Kaiju splatter coats the walls. She fucks the Prime Minister’s quantum double until he admits that time is a lie and gender is a hologram.

Scene Four: The Dreamspace Trial

Kandy stands trial in Kathy Acker’s dreamspace. The judge is a sentient dildo. The jury is composed of her exes, her doubles, and one confused octopus. The prosecution accuses her of being “too real to be fiction.”

She defends herself with a monologue:

“I am the slut you buried in your subconscious. I am the detective who found your shame and fucked it into poetry. I am the Kaiju who dabs on your expectations. I am the foam. I am the juice. I am the glitch.”

The jury orgasms in unison. The judge explodes. She is acquitted.

Scene Five: The Collapse

Tokyo cannot contain her. The city folds into a black hole of desire. Kandy Fontaine rides the collapse like a stripper pole, mirror shades reflecting the end of everything. Her doubles merge into her. She becomes ∞.

She dabs one last time.

The universe moans.

Epilogue: The Archive Reopens

In a quiet alley in Shinjuku, at 3:33 a.m., a puddle of quantum foam begins to fizz. A mirror shade floats to the surface. A fishnet stocking twitches. The archive reopens.

Kandy Fontaine is coming back.

And this time, she’s bringing the whole dreamspace with her.

Death Shtick

A pretty blonde girl walks into a comedy club, mid-afternoon… 

With a setup like that it’s no wonder the bartender thought she was lost. 

“I’m here to see Dickie Crusher,” the girl said. 

The bartender pointed to a lonely stool at the corner of the bar, where a man was sitting under a cloud of cigarette smoke, huddled over a legal pad. The man with bug eyes, thick glasses, and crazy hair was Dickie Crusher. No doubt about it. 

Dickie looked up from his scribbling as the girl approached. The ballpoint pen sticking in his hand made him look like an ape gripping a crayon. “What do you want?” 

“My name is Sally Amis. I’m a comedian. Trying to make it in the biz. I was wondering if I could talk to you, privately.” 

“Trying to make it in the biz, huh? You want to watch me jerk off?” Dickie laughed maniacally. His dingy, tobacco-stained teeth were as comical as his routine. 

Sally smirked and crossed her arms. “Thanks for the offer. Not interested.” 

“I’ve seen you around. Hitting the circuit. Sucking up those AM slots. Tough crowds. Drunk. Are you funny?” 

“Yes, I’m funny.” 

“OK. Make me laugh.” 

“I haven’t got a mirror handy.” 

Dickie snubbed out his cigarette, murmured positive-sounding grunts. “OK. You got a wit. But that doesn’t necessarily mean you’re funny. At the same time, I never said unfunny people can’t have a career in this biz. Please, come into my office, young lady. I promise I won’t try anything.” 

Dickie’s “office” was a shabby dressing room in the back. 

“You might say I have a ‘residency’ here. This is my desk.” He threw the legal pad down atop the rickety vanity in front of the mirror with the burned-out bulbs. He pointed to the cracked leather sofa at the other end of the room. “That’s my wink wink casting couch. Tee hee. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.” 

Sally didn’t sit. Shoulders tensed, she kept the conversation focused and professional. “I wanted to talk about your jokes. I’ve studied your bits quite closely. For example, that joke you did about the shooting at the doughnut shop on La Brea?” 

“Oh, yeah. Gangland style drive-by. Talk about getting glazed up, am I right? Those doughnuts weren’t the only things with holes in ‘em. Hee hee!” 

“That’s just it. It seems for every crime committed in the city you have the jokes ready in your back pocket. Why?” 

“Bits. I get a bit, and I work it how I work it. And why not? It’s called being a comedian. Any disaster, crime, national tragedy, terrorist attack, you name it. It’s fair game. While the masses are mourning, I’m getting material. It’s how comedians are wired. Most guys are afraid to share those bits, because they want careers, families, and Netflix specials. I tell it like it is, baby. That’s why I’m headlining in this gin joint. No Netflix special for me. But I can make ‘em laugh. Boy do I. Deep down, people need to laugh at what scares them. I’m providing a community service. I’m a hero!” 

“Like the one about the pressure cooker explosive that went off at that movie premiere last month?” 

“Yup, shame, talk about review bombing. Heh heh!” 

“And the woman in Los Feliz, from last week?” 

Dickie’s brow knitted in concentration. “I don’t recall.” 

“Witnesses say she went home with a weird-looking guy? They found her in a freezer.” 

“Oh yeah! Hee hee. Netflix and chilled, am I right? Gnuch! Gnuch! BOINK. Buh-la-la-la! Buh-la-la-la! You’re not laughing.” 

Sally didn’t find Dickie’s jokes particularly funny. But she knew the crowds ate it up, because of the way he delivered his bits. The squeaking voice, the googly eyes. The strange noises. It was the blessing and curse of a trickster to be able to squeeze out a smile in spite of the dark nature seething under the surface. 

The attractive blonde pulled out a ragged notepad to assist with her interview. 

Dickie grabbed a rubber chicken from a large prop chest by the couch, gently squeezed it by the neck. “What do you want to discuss now? My penis size? Nothing to write home about, I assure you.” 

“What about the new bit from just a few days ago? An eleven-year-old girl was found raped and murdered just outside of town. Witnesses claim they saw a man carrying a large cardboard box into the woods, in which the remains were discovered.” 

“Never heard of it,” Dickie said. 

“You did a joke about how kids get so ‘carried away sometimes.’” 

“Haha! Damn, I am pretty funny!” 

“The weird thing is, you seemed to have the bit before the story broke. Even before next of kin had been alerted.” 

“What are you saying, kiddo? That I what? You want I should help the police, like a sniff dog? If I do a bit and it hits too close for comfort then that’s the breaks. Like I told you, these bits are in the air. I just grab a hold of one and tell it like I see it. What’s it to ya, anyway? What kind of comedian are you?” 

A grave look crossed Sally’s face, distorting her otherwise symmetrical features. “I’m not a comedian. I’m a detective. I’ve been studying you closely for months. Everyone else in the LAPD thinks I’m out of my league, that I’m chasing a shadow. They laugh at me as they pass.” 

“They must be the only ones who find you funny.” 

“I know there’s something off about you. And I’m willing to put it all on the line to get you. Because I think you’re sick. You and your whole shtick.” 

Richard “Dickie” Crusher took a long drag off his cigarette. “Now that’s funny. You should run with that. And I mean run.” 

“I’ve been working undercover. Been pulling those late-night spots. Trying to get my face out there. All so I could get close enough in your orbit to be sure. But as soon as I saw you, I knew I had my guy. Your jokes are too specific. Too many details. Like you were actually present at the scene of the crimes. You’ve slipped up now, joking about a story before the public was even aware of it. But the joke’s up, Dickie. Because even though I don’t have the evidence to take you in right this minute, I know you’ll keep slipping, and soon, because you can’t help yourself, and you won’t stop. You better look out, Dickie, because you know I will.” 

Sally pivoted for the door. 

“I told you you should run,” Dickie said. 

Why she did it she couldn’t have said, but Sally turned to get one last look at her favorite subject, the maniac she’d lost sleep—and part of her life—obsessing over. 

She looked up just as Dickie brought the lead-filled rubber chicken down on her head, crushing the skull instantly. And he continued to hammer blows down until he was quite certain she wouldn’t be telling her friends at the LAPD anymore crazy stories. 

That night, Dickie’s act was better than he had ever played before. The audience cracked and spilled onto the floor. It was as if Dickie was delivering his magnum opus, his final shtick. For that’s exactly what it was. Sally Amis was keen enough to tell her colleagues at the station where she’d be that afternoon. And when they didn’t hear back from her, they went to investigate, and they found her stashed in the prop chest from which Dickie had pulled his rubber chicken. 

If you asked any of the audience members who attended that evening, they’ll tell you what an unforgettable show it was, and how you may never see its equal. If you ask the comedians who hover around the clubs in the wee hours of the morning, they’ll tell it to you in industry terms: Dickie really killed. 

The Shifter

A wispy mist still hung in the moonlit night. She painfully fought the overpowering animalistic urge to manifest. Control had been a challenge since moving into the quiet little town of Willow Brook nestled deep within the wooded hills of southern Virginia.  

And for many years, she had tried to suppress it to keep it at bay. But she knew that the contorted and hideous transformation would surface at some point. Inviting the ghastly legacy shackled to her at birth.  

It did not matter where Mary Sawyer lived or how far she traveled. She could not hide nor run from her true, yet ungodly, destiny.

***

“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me today.” Mary distributed a thin pamphlet to each of the librarians around the oval oak table. The white blouse and blue dress pants pulled tight against her stocky sixtyish body. The meeting had ended, and it was time for refreshments.

“Mary…why did we have to meet? This information could have been sent in an email. This… meeting is a waste of time!” exclaimed Hubert Mills. His thin, aging body shook. Crooked fingers scratched his balding head. Round, thick glasses gripped his pointy nose.

“Hubert, it’s nice to get away from work. If you didn’t want to come, no one forced you. I like getting out and mingling with other librarians,” commented Rachael Sommers. “I look forward to our meetings.” Her smile lit up the room. Bouncy brunette curls lightly touched her shapely shoulders. Being the youngest among the group, everyone took notice of Rachael, especially Hubert.

“I’m not saying I don’t like conversing with all of you at the meetings; I just feel sometimes Mary takes advantage. The use of technology can cut out-of-pocket expenses. That’s all.” He adjusted his glasses.

Sara Waldin rolled her faded green eyes. She was the oldest in the group, and retirement was not an option. She lived and breathed books. 

“Give it a rest, Hubert. Next time, don’t come. You ruin it for the rest of us. I rather enjoy talking shop with people who understand me. Heaven knows most of the patrons can’t hold a decent conversation nowadays. They’re too busy scrolling on their phones or texting or instant messaging. How we lived years ago without cell phones…” Sara’s raspy voice trailed away.

Mary stood at the head of the table. Her hands folded in front. She listened to her colleague’s bicker. A tiny smile crept across her wrinkled face. “Hubert, you are correct. The list of upcoming best sellers could have been sent in an email. But it’s quite hard to discuss the various available options about acquiring the books for our collections using email. I know Willow Brook is the main branch, and the other three libraries are considered satellite stations. But each of you is responsible for their collections.” 

Sara was already investigating the snack table. A brownie and cupcake sat on her tiny plate. She shuffled over to the coffee urn. With a shaky hand, she tried to steady the Styrofoam cup. 

Rachael rushed to the older woman’s side. “Let me help, Sara.” She gently took the half-filled steaming cup. With a dash of cream and a teaspoon of sugar, she placed it back by Sara’s seat. 

“Why, thank you, Rachael.” Sara sat down and began to eat. 

Hubert looked around the cramped meeting room. He was the only male attending. Not that he minded—especially being around Rachael. Without saying another word, he heaped several pieces of pastry onto the plate. Minutes later, the band of librarians ate in silence. 

As they finished eating, goodbyes were exchanged. Rachael lagged. Mary noticed the time. The Willow Brook Public Library had few visiting patrons. It was almost closing time for the sleepy little library snuggled against the hills. 

“Is there something else, Rachael?” Mary asked. The older woman clicked the mic, announcing the five-minute warning until closing.

“Actually…if you could spare a few minutes.” Rachael rubbed the back of her neck. 

“Of course, of course. Give me a moment.” Mary held the door for the last remaining patron exiting the building, then locked the front door.

“Let’s go back into the meeting room.” The two women’s shoes echoed in the hallway. Once inside, Rachael began to sob.

“Rachael…why are you crying?” asked Mary. She guided her to a chair. Without hesitation, the young woman delved into an explanation.

“It’s my apartment complex. There are six units.” Rachael sniffed and wiped her nose with a tissue. She sat down across from Mary.

“There’s a new tenant. His name is…Rodney Wilson. He’s just been released from Petersburg Federal Prison from upper Virginia.” Mary remained silent. She had a hunch she knew where this conversation was going.

“Being a librarian, I did what should have been done and checked public records. He was convicted of assault and battery. A fifteen-year sentence.” Her lips and chin trembled.

“Rachael, did he hurt you?” Immediately, Rachael’s eyes held Mary’s. Her head moved slightly back and forth.

“But he’s going to,” whispered Rachael. Mary drew back. 

“Why would you think he wants to cause you harm?” pressed Mary. Rachael stared at her lap. 

“He said he is waiting—for the right time,” murmured Rachael. 

“How did this man end up in Willow Brook, of all places?” Mary crossed her arms.

“I don’t know. There are dozens of small towns from here to Petersburg. He could have picked any of them. Unfortunately, he picked Willow Brook.” Rachael’s head slumped.

“Rodney has to realize if something happens to you, he will return to prison. I’m sure he knows this. Why would he risk his freedom? It doesn’t add up,” stated Mary. Rachael’s eyes were red.

“Maybe he’s just trying to scare me…all bark, no bite,” replied Rachael.

“Or…maybe not. You must take his threat seriously, Rachael. Did you go to the police and report this?” Mary slid her chair closer to the table.

“Yes. I spoke with Detective Ellie Griffin. She told me he served his time and had the right to live anywhere. And until he tries to harm me physically, there’s not much she can do.” Rachael started to cry again.

“What about family?” asked Mary in a soothing tone.

“I…I don’t have a family. My mother passed away almost two years ago. I was an only child. I have no relatives on my father’s or mother’s side. I may have distant cousins, but I have no clue what their names could be or if they even exist. It’s just…me.” She dabbed at her watery eyes.

“And I would think moving would be out of the question. You shouldn’t have to lose your home because of Rodney’s intrusive behavior.” Mary waited a moment. “Why don’t you spend a few days with me? I have a wonderful cottage with a spare bedroom. It’s not much…” She waited for a response.

Rachael forced a smile. “You’re so kind, Mary. But I like my apartment. I should feel safe in my own home.” Mary gave a slight nod.

“Rachael, please be aware of your surroundings at all times. Lock your doors and windows. And if you hear anything, day or night, call the police.” Rachael stood up to leave.

“I appreciate your help, Mary. Thanks for a shoulder to lean on. I’ll be fine.” The two women faced one another. Suddenly, Rachael wrapped her arms around the older woman. Mary briefly held the upset woman.  Rachael eased away. 

“It will be alright, Rachael.” And without saying another, Rachael left the library to hurry home.

***

The urge to shapeshift had become overwhelming as she thought of Rachael’s safety. She had inherited her unique power from her mother’s long bloodline of shapeshifters spanning over a century. This rare ability was a type of metamorphosis—to change into something else.  

The last time Mary allowed herself to shift was at her mother’s funeral. Many had blamed Mary for her mother’s death. But Mary was the only one who knew the truth. And from that day forward, she vowed never to shift again—until now.

Mary realized Rodney Wilson would not stop. His evil intentions toward Rachael were clear. It didn’t matter to him if he returned to prison. He would eventually have his way with Rachael and destroy her life.

***

Mary stood silently in the shadows outside Rachael’s apartment building. Rodney Wilson lived in the bottom unit on the far side. His light was still on at one o’clock in the morning. The rest of the apartments were dark. Dampness hung in the night air. Mary moved along the brick exterior. She bent down and peered through the open blinds. 

Rodney sat alone on the tattered couch. His one hand held a beer while the other rubbed his crotch. The flat screen filled with images of pornography. 

Mary moved to the back entrance. Using her picks, she entered in under a minute. The dimly lit hallway enveloped the change. Her aged body shuddered as the transformation began. She forgot the extent of unbearable pain as her form twisted and contoured to alien skin. It felt like hours, but she knew it was mere seconds. The black leather material adhered to every curve. Mary licked her voluptuous lips. She had to hurry. She did not know how long she could hold the course.

Rodney’s breathing became labored. His hand moved faster and faster. A slight moan emanated from his drooling mouth. And then, before he could release, a knock on the door.

“What the…” His manhood deflated instantly. The marijuana he smoked a short time ago still hung heavy in the air. He slurped the remaining beer—another knock.

“Coming,” he shouted as he tried to get up. The wooziness almost made him puke. As he staggered to the door, a heavier knock came again.

Mary glanced about the empty area outside Apartment 1. Hopefully, all her pounding didn’t wake the neighbors, especially Rachael.

The knob turned several times. Finally, after a few more seconds, Rodney pulled it open. His eyes grew wide.

“Well…isn’t it the sexy woman from upstairs.” Mary slid her hands slowly down her snug leather outfit. Her tongue licked her lips. “Have you finally come to your senses, sweet thing?” His words slurred. 

“I’ve been watching you,” she whispered. Rodney belched. 

“Me? Well…let me tell you…something…I’ve been watching you!” he stuttered. He stepped back and opened the door even wider. “Let’s…get this party started, sweetheart!” 

Mary slinked inside the smelly apartment—a mixture of sweat, weed, and beer. The pornographic images on the television were frozen in place.

Rodney tried desperately to focus. His manhood was coming to attention by the thought of taking this woman right here, right now, in his private domain.

“I knew,” he stifled another belch, “you wanted it the first time I saw your sexy ass. Want to smoke some weed or….do you want a beer?” He swayed slightly.

Mary glanced at the pathetic loser of a man. She struggled to keep her image in place. Her bones ached. And since it had been so long since her last shapeshift the pain intensified with each moment she sustained Rachael’s mirror image.

“No. I came here for one reason and one reason only.” Suddenly, Mary felt she was losing control. Her body shook and shimmied. 

Rodney rubbed his grainy eyes. “What the…is going on? I must be wasted. You…you look like you’re changing.” Drool leaked from the corner of his sagging mouth.

Mary knew she had to act fast. Her shape was beginning to shift. “I want you to leave me alone, Rodney. And if you don’t, I might have to do something you will regret.” And with that said, Mary struck with full force. The knuckles of her fingers rammed into his Adam’s apple with just enough pressure. His spine crumpled.

Rodney gulped for air as he fell to the dirty carpet. He instantly rolled back and forth, grabbing at his neck.

As he finally was able to breathe, Mary leaned down close. Her face shifted again into a distorted hideous creature with protruding bloodshot eyes and jagged teeth. Saliva dripped from her grotesque mouth onto his heaving chest. She ran a long-rotted fingernail down his white, pallid face.

“Do we understand one another, Rodney?” Mary sneered then sucked in the pain. “Rodney, I asked you a question?” She tilted her oblong head filled with slimy black hair. His entire body trembled. 

Mary stood up. “I’ll take that as a yes. And if I see you look in my direction at any time, Rodney, I promise to come back and show you exactly how much I like you.” Mary winked her large, bulging eye, then puckered her ashen lips as if she was blowing him a kiss.

Sweat appeared on Rodney’s forehead. He could not move. His breath in gulps. He watched through bloodshot eyes as the creature turned and left the apartment closing the door behind.

***

The following month, the small group of librarians met once again. Mary was busy setting up the refreshment table. Rachael arrived a bit early and prepped the coffee urn. Sara and Hubert had just sat down and were discussing the latest bestsellers.

“Excuse me, everyone. May I have your attention, please? I am grateful for taking time out of your busy schedules to attend this meeting. With the holidays looming ahead, my list contains…” Mary continued, highlighting the handout. 

After an hour, the small group gathered at the table of pastries, courtesy of Hubert. Powder sugar stuck to his face as he licked his fingers.

“Well, I must say, Hubert, I was quite shocked by the fact you were the one to bring the snacks. They are quite tasty,” remarked Sara. The old woman shoved another cookie into her mouth. Hubert blushed at the compliment.

“I find it only appropriate to contribute to such…informative meetings. I agree to discuss the promising additions to our collections in person…well, it makes sense.” The three women clapped. Again, Hubert’s face blossomed red.

Within twenty minutes, the meeting area had been cleaned. The chairs were returned, and the table was folded. Hubert took his leave with Sara, leaving Rachael and Mary behind.

“I guess I better get back to the branch,” said Rachael. “Oh, I heard you were feeling under the weather, Mary. Is everything alright?” She wrinkled her brow.

“You could say I just didn’t feel like myself. But it passed. Nothing a little rest couldn’t fix. I’m fine now,” replied Mary, trying to hide her grin. 

Rachael turned to leave. “By the way, Rachael, how are things with the new tenant? Is he still bothering you?” Mary crossed her arms.

The young woman hesitated before she spoke. “It’s the strangest thing…I saw Rodney in the stairwell the other day. Usually, he snickers or makes gross sexual remarks, but this time it was different. He barely looked at me. He hurried to get inside his apartment. I felt relieved. Maybe things will be alright after all.” Rachael smiled. 

Mary took a deep breath. She wished to tell Rachael her secret but knew it could never happen. That was the mistake Mary’s mother had made and it cost her life. So, Mary would have to settle for keeping her secret and the fact that Rodney Wilson would never bother Rachael again.

Chocolate Dab Wax Monster: A Bone City Tale Featuring Kandy Fontaine, Slutty Detective

Bone City never slept. It twitched. It moaned. It pulsed with neon and pheromones, a place where reality bent under the weight of too much lube and not enough law. And in the heart of it all, behind the velvet curtain of a strip club called the Velvet Guillotine, Kandy Fontaine stirred a bubbling vat of madness.

She wore a lab coat over fishnets, stilettos that could puncture a man’s soul, and a smirk that had gotten her banned from three dimensions. Kandy wasn’t just a slutty detective—she was a chaos chemist, a femme fatale with a PhD in bad decisions.

“Joe,” she said, not looking up from the swirling goo, “this is going to change everything.”

Joe Oroborous, her partner in crime and tantric yoga instructor, leaned against the wall, puffing on a vape pen that smelled like enlightenment and regret. He was shirtless, as usual, his body a roadmap of tattoos and bite marks.

“You said that last time,” he replied. “We ended up summoning a sentient bong that tried to unionize.”

“This is different,” Kandy said, dropping a strand of Velociraptor DNA into the vat. “Chocolate dab wax. Ninety-nine percent THC. Spliced with dinosaur genetics. It’ll get you stoned and make you extinct.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “You’re making a weedosaur.”

“I prefer ‘ChocoDabadon’.”

The vat hissed. The goo bubbled. The DNA writhed. Then—boom.

The explosion was small, but the consequences were not. From the shattered beaker and swirling smoke emerged a creature: ten feet tall, dripping with resin, its scales glistening like caramelized obsidian. It had claws shaped like dab tools and eyes that pulsed with psychedelic fury.

It roared—a sound like a bong hit amplified through a Marshall stack—and smashed through the wall, lumbering into the neon-lit streets of Bone City.

The monster’s breath was pure THC. Entire blocks were hotboxed in seconds. Citizens wandered in a daze, giggling, munching on street lamps, proposing to fire hydrants. The mayor declared the city a “420 sanctuary” and married a vending machine.

Kandy and Joe watched from the rooftop of the Velvet Guillotine, sipping mezcal and trying not to inhale too deeply.

“We need to stop it,” Joe said. “Before it turns the whole city into a stoner wasteland.”

Kandy lit a joint shaped like a crucifix. “Bone City’s already a stoner wasteland.”

“Fair. But this thing’s different. It’s primal. It’s horny. It’s high.”

Kandy exhaled. “So are we.”

They tracked the beast to the ruins of the Bone City Zoo, where it had built a nest out of vape cartridges, lingerie, and discarded copies of High Times. It was mating with a billboard of Tommy Chong.

“We need to neutralize it,” Joe said, loading his vape gun with concentrated CBD rounds.

Kandy shook her head. “No. We need to seduce it.”

Joe blinked. “You mean…?”

“Yes. We turn it into a smokable sex toy.”

Back at the lab, they worked fast. Kandy synthesized a pheromone blend from crushed aphrodisiac terpenes and Joe performed a tantric summoning ritual involving goat yoga and interpretive moaning. The monster arrived, drawn by the scent and the sound, its eyes swirling like lava lamps.

It roared, but this time it sounded… curious.

Kandy stepped forward, holding a vibrating nanotech dildo shaped like a raptor claw. “Hey, big guy,” she purred. “Wanna get smoked and stroked?”

The monster paused. Sniffed. Drooled.

Joe activated the containment field. The latex wrapped around the creature like a lover’s embrace. The nanotech pulsed. The pheromones surged. The beast moaned—a sound like Cheech and Chong having a spiritual awakening.

Then it compressed. Shrunk. Transformed.

The result? The world’s first THC-powered, dinosaur-themed, smokable sex toy.

Bone City sobered up. The monster was gone. The streets were safe. And Kandy Fontaine had a new product line: Jurassic Joints™—Get Stoned. Get Boned.

The mayor annulled his marriage to the vending machine and declared Kandy a civic hero. Joe got a tantric medal of honor. The Velvet Guillotine hosted a launch party featuring edible lingerie and a DJ who only played whale sounds.

Kandy lit the tip of the claw and took a drag. “Tastes like victory.”

Joe nodded. “And extinction.”

But Bone City never stayed quiet for long.

A week later, a haunted vape lounge opened on the edge of town. Rumor had it the ghost of a foot fetishist was seducing customers through scented fog. Kandy packed her pheromone pistol. Joe grabbed his lube grenades.

They rode off into the haze, ready for the next case.

Because in Bone City, weird was just the beginning.

Tommy

My local hospital, the Countess of Monte Clueless infirmary is useless, they’re always messing things up. You go in with one thing and come out with something else, they mix up corpses, take out the wrong organs or they leave something inside your body like a watch, a phone or a Staph infection.

I had to go in there for surgery for bladder cancer. You lose all modesty in that procedure. But at least they didn’t have to cut me open as they went through another opening to reach my bladder.

I came out all sore and tender but the cancer was removed and this time I didn’t have a postop infection.

I was recovering well in the weeks that followed. I thought I was ok. That was until I heard a voice from below.

It was a deep and distinctive voice, not like my thin reedy voice at all. And it was coming from below. Oh no, they’ve not left a phone in my belly again? That was my first thought.

But it was worse than that, those idiots at the hospital had only left me with a talking testicle, the left one.

My left testicle was telling me to get a shower. Told me I reeked.

I checked for lumps but this time I was ok, it was just I had a testicle that was talking to me. And it wouldn’t shut up.

It told me its name was Tommy, Tommy the talking testicle. There were problems at first.

It was difficult going to the toilet when you had this testicle jabbering away non stop and singing too, and worse whenever I was talking to someone it kept butting in. How rude.

I was all for having it removed, but then I found Tommy the testicle started coming in handy.

You see I’ve always been shy and awkward around females. I go all silent and quiet when I see someone I fancy. Tommy could see I was stumbling so it was giving me advice on how to date women. You know what to wear, what spray to use, where to take them on dates and most importantly what to say.

You see Tommy the testicle had the gift of the gab when it came to members of the opposite sex and it had a lovely speaking voice that seemed to melt all my dates hearts. I left all the talking to Tommy on dates. Tommy could throw its voice so it didn’t come across too weird. 

I could just sit back, relax and let my left testicle do all the talking. This worked fine when I was out on a date, though my dates thought it odd when I spent a lot of time looking down at my pants.

Some people talk a lot of balls, but I found I was listening to mine and I have to admit Tommy was a smooth talking testicle.

Yes, I got a lot more dates, but I couldn’t keep them. The women left me when they heard my real voice which was more tinny than Tommy’s. It was becoming apparent that my talking testicle had more pizazz and personality than me.

It started grating on me. Did the women really like Tommy rather than me? Could I ever have a lasting relationship where there were effectively three of us involved, with me looking like the third bicycle wheel?

 My family all loved Tommy. My mother adored it. She would spend hours talking to Tommy when she came to visit. She’d just ignore me.  I felt like a spare part. Mother told Tommy that I was such a bore. It irritated me that family and friends would always be asking me, “How’s Tommy” and they would send Tommy birthday cards and presents, and not send me anything.

 My mother told me as she was leaving, “Why can’t you be more like Tommy?”

I was finding out that life is a pain and a tragedy when everybody prefers your talking left testicle to you.

Tommy was also irritating me. It was such a know it all, and it was also critical of my habits and appearance, and was always pulling me up every day.

I was starting to  loath and hate my talking testicle. People were now calling me “Tommy’s minder.”

Was that it? Was that to be my role in life, merely the receptacle for my overconfident testicle?

It was on my mind, the prospect of living in the shadow of my talkative testicle, until I couldn’t stand it any longer. Tommy would have to go, surgically of course.

I would live the rest of my life with one, silent, testicle.

So I booked myself a procedure at the local hospital.

The procedure was quick and painless, I awoke. And the doctor informed me the op was a complete success. I was overjoyed, I would be free of Tommy the talkative testicle forever.

Later that day I got home and sat down rather carefully, but then a voice boomed upwards from my pants, it was yelling at me, “Its Tommy here, You stupid berk, you’re stuck with me forever, you don’t have the balls to get rid of me, Tommy the talking testicle, and I’ve got lots to say…”

It’s that awful hospital’s fault. That bungling lot at the Countess of Monte Clueless infirmary had gone and taken away the wrong bollock. They really balled up this time, whipping away my well behaved right testicle and leaving me stuck with Tommy the talking Testicle forever.

The Tongue Bandit

Pussy hunting. No, not hunting, snaring. Yes, snaring. Pussy snaring. That’s what I’m good at. Was, good at, he thought, lying in bed, his coffee machine beginning to percolate. But I couldn’t tell my career advisor that, now could I?! Or that I’m retired. Mind you, I’d step out of pussy snaring retirement for her… Nah, I don’t need to, no matter how sexy she is. What was her name again? Oh yeah, Miss Frost. Lauren? Yeah, Lauren Frost. 

He rolled over in bed, onto his back, his morning wood pulsating, pushing at the duvet. “Now look at what you’ve done, Lauren,” he said, smiling, pulling the covers back, revealing his lean, athletic body. 

“And what would you like me to do with that, Mr Asham?” he imagined her saying. “Or may I call you Daniel?”

“Daniel, please,” he said, wrapping his hand around his fat prick, giving it a few gentle strokes, his bell-end moist, tacky. “Fuck. Feels good.”

Yeah, you can’t beat the old-fashioned way, he thought, a chuckle escaping him, his mind filling with Lauren, sitting behind her desk at the job centre, her legs, clad in tights, on display to the thigh, her skirt rucked up; a hint of pink knickers showing. 

Fucking tease. I’m sure she knows what she’s doing, he continued to muse, rubbing his dick. She’s probably seen the posts about me all over social media, too. Yeah, so maybe I should have spoken to her about my sexploits, which got me fired from teaching. 

“And why was I canned? Because of that old, dried-up spinster twat in HR,” Daniel said between gritted teeth, removing his hand from off his knob and getting out of bed. “The hag was sore because I crushed her advances.”

“It’s such a shame you won’t use that magic tongue on my pussy, Daniel,” Vera said, cornering him outside the men’s room at work. “I can make things very uncomfortable for you around here.” 

“I’m a changed man.”

“Pft, men like you never change. Come on, it can be our little secret,” she winked. 

A shiver racked his body, his cock wavered, as he envisioned the hairy, witch-like wart at the end of her nose. Almost enough to put me off my morning wank, let alone my coffee, he thought. Maybe it wasn’t so much as the rejection, but how I laughed in her face? Fuck sake, the woman stank worse than wet dog. And would it hurt her to wear a bra? Christ.

Daniel tried to push the thoughts of her aside, but couldn’t, her voice coming again. 

“Go ahead, laugh,” she said, her face taking on a stern, cloudy look. “But I know all about the posts online, regarding you. How you give women multiple orgasms with your tongue, making them pass out, sending them into spasms… Please, Daniel. Just once,” she tried again, putting a hand to his shoulder. 

“No!” he said, removing her chubby paw. 

“No need to attack me,” she said, storming off. 

Before he could retaliate, she’d gone, stomping off down the corridor, her huge, pendulous arse swinging wild like cow’s ears flapping in the wind. 

Didn’t take long, did it? he thought, before the hierarchy had their claws in me. The vultures circled, waiting to shred flesh with their finely manicured talons; their pristine grins dripping poison. Their acidic tongues ready to strike.

“We hate to do this to you Daniel,” the dean said, his generals at his heels, “because you’re a fantastic professor, but we can’t have such perversion and negativity around the university, so, we’re letting you go.”

Wankers, he thought, going to the percolator, his soft dick swaying, his hand balling into a fist, as he thought about Denton, his boss, turning his laptop around to show Daniel the Tongue Bandit posts Vera had brought to his attention. They showed photos of Daniel, along with huge rants from jilted lovers, labelling him the Tongue Bandit.  

At least the anonymous posters used handsome photos of me, he thought, sniggering, filling a mug with coffee.  

Daniel arched his back, raising his arms into the air, and yawned. His bones cracked and creaked as he rotated his head, working the sleep cramp and stiffness out of his neck. “Better,” he said, throwing the bedroom curtains open, allowing sunlight to pour in, drenching his nude form in a warm, basking embrace.

“Mmm,” he said, ruffling his hair, grabbing his mug of coffee, taking a mouthful before settling back down on his bed to think about Lauren. About her legs and tight blouse, and how the outline of her bra had revealed itself to him. His dick grew. 

The Tongue Bandit has retired, he thought, but I can never be a one woman man, so staying out of the fairer sexes way will be for the best. No more crushing hearts, fucking up already unstable ladies (even though the crazy ones are the best fuck), and leading them on. Time to concentrate on me.

When his cock was at its hardest, Daniel opened the drawer to his bedside cabinet and removed the Fleshlight 6000. It was the latest model on the market, unavailable to purchase in the UK. However, through dodgy black markets and online fences, he’d tracked one down. 

“If you’re looking to remove the ladies from your life, painstaking dates and/or internet porn, then this is the tool for you, sir,” the online sales rep pitched him, when purchasing the cock-pleaser. 

“Why’s it banned in the UK?” he asked. 

“Because it hasn’t been fully approved by the British health and safety board, but rest assured, it’ll be the best purchase of your life. Or, your money back!”

The salesperson hadn’t been wrong, either, Daniel thought, looking at the fleshlight, which had a realistic pussy at its base, complete with g-spot that could be licked, sucked and nibbled on. Hell, the thing even reacted to being fucked and stimulated, by releasing moans of pleasure through a tiny speaker and pussy juices from a slit.

Daniel turned the expensive device over in his hand, admiring its sleek black curves and array of multi-function buttons, from speed to massage settings. This thing could do it all, apart from make you coffee. 

“I think I’ve finally got a name for you, baby,” he smiled. “Lauren.” 

Daniel switched the device on, its soft hum making his prick twitch. Before slipping the hood of the device over his hard-on, easing into Laurean’s soft, pink fleshy bit, he put his mouth to the device’s g-spot and let his tongue work its witchcraft. His mind wondered, selecting certain head-swelling comments from the various posts about him online.

“He’ll make you fall in love with him through his sexpertise, before casting you aside for another,” one had read.

“Best fuck I’ve ever had. Typical love rat,” another said.

“I’ve never come so many times. Bastard,” a third had put.

A smile split Daniel’s face, as he licked and sucked at Lauren’s clit, making the fleshlight  moan and squirt, hitting a 10 plus on its pleasure meter. 

“The Tongue Bandit strikes again,” a fourth lady had posted 

“How apt, should that quote come to mind,” Daniel thought, smiling, as he eased the sex toy away from his mouth, pulling strings of pussy juice mixed with saliva from his lips. “Mm, you taste great this morning, Miss Frost,” he said, his cock bobbing. “I think he wants you…”

At that moment, his phone buzzed, but he ignored it. However, his mobile persisted, breaking his concentration. 

“Christ,” Daniel said, setting his toy to one side, picking his phone up and illuminating its screen. “A bloody email,” he uttered, about to replace his mobile, when he saw the mail had been sent by an L. Frost. “Is she psychic?” 

With a chuckle, he opened the message. 

What a time for her to send me a job alert, he thought. 

‘Hiya Daniel, I was wondering if I could see you this morning or later today, maybe a house call? I might have something of interest to you. If so, give me a call on the number below. It’s my private line. Lauren. X’ 

“Shit, she signed off with a kiss,” he said. “Must have been a mistake. A slip of the finger.”

Had it been anyone else, about anything, even an emergency at this moment in time, with his cock raging, he would have ignored it. But that kiss, even though he was convinced it was an error, got his fingers moving and dialling her number, as he slipped the fleshlight over his cock. 

I’ll probably nut at the sound of her voice, he thought. Shit. She wants a house visit! I didn’t think career advisors did that… 

She answered on the second ring. 

“Miss Frost?” he said. 

“Speaking.”

“Oh, hey, it’s Daniel. You asked me to call?” he said, trying to play it smooth, the tremble in his voice betraying him, as the vibrator lethargically massaged the tip of his prick. He bit his lip.

“I’m glad you’ve called,” she hesitated. “I trust you can be discreet?”

His guts dropped, his load almost shooting out of him. Jesus, the kiss may not have been a mistake after all. “Of course,” he said.

“I’ve seen the stories about you, the, erm—”

“The Tongue Bandit stuff?” he said, sniggering. 

“Yes,” she said, which was nothing more than a whisper, and Daniel could almost feel her blushes through the phone, her heat radiating, “which might be a barrier for you when it comes to interviews or references.”

“Why don’t you come over, as suggested, so we can discuss it face-to-face,” he said, smiling, easing the vibrator up and down his shaft. “What do you say?”

“I can come right now?” she said. “I just need to gather a few things first.”

Oh, you’ll be coming alright, he thought. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll text you my address.”

“Great,” she said. “Can’t wait.”

After hanging up, Daniel sent her his details and replaced his fleshlight to the drawer. Well, I did say I’d step out of retirement for her, he thought, smiling. And they say word of mouth’s dead? A fit of laughter escaped him. 

An hour later, there was a knock at his front door. Forgoing clothes, even underwear, Daniel rushed downstairs and opened up, which was the last thing he remembered, as something hard and heavy struck him in the face. His world turned black.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” a woman said. 

“Wha—” Daniel said, blinking, failing to shake the fog from his vision. When he tried to move, he couldn’t, his wrists and ankles lashed to the bed. “The fuck?!”

 “Are these your trophies?” a woman asked.   

When he looked up, a pile of knickers in all shapes, styles, sizes and colours smacked him in the face, with most landing on his lap. 

“Dirty bastard,” she said. “Still, you shot me down, didn’t you! Not good enough? Young enough? Sexy enough?”

“Vera!” Danial said. “What? How?” he stuttered, unable to form thoughts and sentences. 

She smiled. “Oh, how the tables have turned, eh?” she smiled. “You never were very good at attention to detail, were you?” 

The perplexed look splashed across his face told her that she needed to spell it out for him. “Too busy thinking about whose pussy you were going to entertain next, I suppose, to realise what was going on around you. Frost. Vera Frost. Lauren’s my sister,” she said, pulling her dress up, removing her knickers. One more pair for your collection, Danial. Your final pair, I dare say.”

Now it was her turn to laugh, as he fought against his restraints.

“She told me all about this handsome man at the job centre, who couldn’t keep his eyes off her, and when I heard your name. Well, I’m sure you’re smart enough to put the rest together yourself. Now, open wide,” Vera said, walking towards him, her thunder thighs chafing, shedding skin like a cheese grater. 

“God, no. Please,” he said, watching her climb onto the bed, her huge frame towering over him. 

“It’s been a long time since my kitty was fed, Daniel,” she said, lowering her hairy, dripping cunt onto his face, that had bits of toilet paper stuck in it. “Now, be a good boy, and use that epic appendage of yours, and you might just live to tell the tale,” Vera laughed, grinding her moistness against his mouth, his nose rubbing her clit. “God, that’s it,” she began to moan, arching her back, running her hands through her long, greasy and tangled hair. “Right there…Oooh, don’t stop.”

As she rode his face, her belly fat jiggling and crashing against him, she came, and came again, as he thrashed beneath her

“Ugh…” he moaned. “I can’t breathe…” With a gasp, Daniel’s body started to spasm. 

“Yes, oh God, yes! Keep going,” Vera squealed. “Let’s see if you can get me there once more, Tongue Bandit, before you tap out for good, and I take that wagging organ of yours with me as my trophy,” she said, his death throes making her gush.

272 pages
Horror Sleaze Trash

Alex S. Johnson has been hailed as a “mad, genre-defying genius” (Terry M. West), “shocking, perverse…funny as hell” (Lucy Taylor), “the Baudelaire of our time” (John Shirley) and “without competition” (Lemmy Kilmister). The author of such cult classics as Jason X: Death Moon, written with Hugo Award-winner Pat Cadigan, Johnson’s work is collected at Harvard University’s Widener Library and is Recommended Reading from the Horror Writers Association. The Doom Hippies III: A Great Variety of Monsters collects his very latest dark satire tales, featuring such fan favorite characters as Reynaldo, the World’s Smolest Circus Bear and Kandy Fontaine, Slutty Detective. Find out why Bram Stoker Award-winner Brian Keene declared Johnson to be “one of our essential writers of Bizarro Fiction.” With a Foreword by Weird Fiction master Jeffrey Thomas. For Immature Adult Readers only.

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Fictional Characters 

Humbert Humbert was sitting at a window table, nursing a gin and tonic, and staring at the elementary school playground across the street. The young girls were so beautiful, he thought, so fresh and unspoiled, so perfect. He felt that old stirring in his loins, yes his loins, even though he hated that word. Should he turn away, so as not to fall prey to the old compulsions? Hogwash! Why deny himself the beauty the world had to offer. If God, in his great and infinite wisdom, had not meant us to lust, yes “lust” was a word he was not too proud to use, to lust after these embodiments of pure beauty, why then would he have made them so delicious, so tempting, so absolute and impeccable. Bugger off, he thought, to the naysayers, to every philistine who abhorred beauty, who was shamed by love, who hated life itself. I will stare if I wish, and damn the world’s prudery, I will do so without embarrassment or self-loathing. And I say to hell with Nabokov the betrayer, the liar, the scoundrel and his horrid little book.

He sipped his drink and sighed. The young girls across the street were playing double-dutch, praise be to our Lord and Savior, jumping up and down and up again, often revealing a hint of white or pink cotton between their thighs, and oh how it made him sigh with a happiness that warmed and chilled him in each moment. As he craned his neck for a better view, he felt a sharp slap across the back of his head, and an English gentleman, dressed elegantly in Saville Row but also somehow rough and crude, dropped himself into a seat at Humbert’s table and said, “Humbert, you pig! Have you learned nothing?!”

“I say, my good man, and who might you be?”

“I’m your conscience, you pervert. Put your tongue back in your mouth and get your mind out of those little girls’ panties.”  The man motioned to a waitress passing the table. He said, “Hey there gorgeous! A vodka martini, if you would be so kind.” 

The waitress appeared to know him. “The usual, Mr. Bond? Shaken, not stirred?” She let out a hearty laugh. “I go to the cinema all the time, and it just tickles my funny bone when you say that.”

James patted her on the bum and said, “Maybe we can tickle a few more things in my hotel room when you get off.” She laughed again, leaned in and wrote her phone number on a napkin, then fluttered off.   

“You see, Humbert?” Bond said as he folded the napkin and put it in his jacket pocket. “This bird’s twice as sexy as your kindergarteners, and she’s legal!” He let out a full-throated laugh that devolved into a cough. He cleared his throat and said, “You know the old saying, ‘Sixteen will get you twenty.’ And if you’re anything like your reputation, you like ’em half that!”

“No,” Humbert said firmly. “I do not know that old saying, and I do not think it is in the least bit funny. But I must say that you’ve got it all wrong.” He took a sizeable gulp of gin. “And by the way, I realize now who you are, Mr. Bond. James Bond, Her Majesty’s Secret Service, double-oh-seven and all that. The great cocksman of the Home Office. The woman you seem so smitten by,” he tilted his head in the direction of the waitress, “is but a common barmaid. She has a history, so much unseemly baggage. She has been despoiled, broken by her disappointments, by her shattered dreams, by the knowledge that life takes everything and leaves you bereft. Taking a woman like that to bed is inviting malaise, or worse, despair. The little ones, they have so much promise. They glow magnificently with the promise and hopefulness that has yet to be stolen from them.”

“Humbert, for all your big words, you are an imbecile,” said Bond. “It is exactly that experience, that ‘baggage’ as you would have it, that makes the sex so extraordinary! Real women know things, they understand things, and because they’ve been around, they are formidable! You couldn’t handle this hot little barmaid, you ponce. Either your head or your unremarkable little willy would explode.”

A man at the next table could keep quiet no longer. He tapped his knuckles on his table and said, “Excuse me, gentlemen, but I couldn’t help overhearing.” Bond and Humbert turned to engage the man, each curious, but with a hint of annoyance. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Nathan Zuckerman, from America. And let me say what a pleasure it is to actually meet you both. You’re quite famous you know.”

“We know,” Humbert and Bond said in unison, then looked at each other and smiled, more than a little pleased with themselves. 

Zuckerman went on, “First off, you’re both perverts. And I know, I’ve been chronicling the subject for decades. And Bond, setting aside what is legal and what is not, you’re as much of a pedophile as our friend here. You continue to sleep with twenty-year-olds, and you’re what now, sixty? Older? As American boys say on the playground, ‘Why don’t you pick on someone your own size!’ Or rather, your own age! It’s as if you learned it from him.” He pointed with his thumb at Humbert.

Humbert scowled, but Bond was nonplussed. “But I do get my knob polished, don’t I, Nathan old boy. How long has it been since you could say that, what with your prostate issues and all?” He smiled in triumph. “I read too, you know.” 

“Touché,” said Zuckerman. “If you’ll allow me, gentlemen, the next round is on me.” He pulled his chair over to join them.

156 pages
Horror Sleaze Trash

A veteran entertainer approaches the final stages of a dubious career with his dignity intact. How long will he be able to keep up the act? North Hollywood Blue pokes an aweless lens between the folds of a voracious industry’s pink curtains.

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The One With the Eyes That Can Seize Your Soul

We had pizza, and it was hot. Banana peppers and jalapeños. First bite burned the roof of my mouth. And my date was smoking. Off the fucking charts.

At her place, a tiny cold home in Seward, Minneapolis, she pulled down my Wranglers and gave me an ultimatum:

“I’m gonna give you a handjob,” she told me. So far, so good! “But you have to look into my eyes, and you can’t look away.”

“Okay…”

“If you look away,” she added, “It’s over. That’s as far as we go. I leave you high and dry. I’ll kick your ass out.”

“Can I blink?”

“Yeah, you can blink. You can even cum—cum right into my open eyes. I don’t care. But if you look away, it’s over. And that’s that. You won’t be seeing me again.”

I was so hard I could almost cry, and I didn’t think I’d last long, so it seemed like an easy game. A few minutes. Five at the absolute most. No problem. Just don’t look away.

But when she wiggled in close, taking hold of my cock, I realized, already, that my eyes had strayed away. I was looking at her hands, each elegant finger. I was transfixed by her predator touch. She had  rune tattoos below each knuckle and, as I puzzled over their meaning, I privately wondered Is this girl a witch? I admired her silver rings, her outrageous press-on nails. I zeroed in on her possessive strokes.

She took hold of me with grace, thumbing away the precum. Her handwork was deft. Her fingers, balletic. My eyes lingered as long as I dared, hoping to move them before she took notice, before the game began. I savored her artistic flare, her sexy panache; her Komodo dragon acrylics as loud as a Tokyo skyline.

I met her eyes just in time.

“Okay, big boy.” Big boy! That almost made me cum. “Don’t you dare look away.”

I was determined that I would not.

It was more intimate than I could have imagined; staring into the eyes of god (for that is who this woman became in this game of discipline and pleasure). “Don’t look away,” she threatened. “Don’t look at my tits,” she teased, working away at me with one hand, unbuttoning her shirt with the other. As the lumberjack flannel parted to her navel, I was truly put to the test. But I didn’t look away. “Good boy.” I passed the test.

Behind her head, a nest of serpentine dreadlocks, a Netflix menu cycled stills of featured shows and films. It was hard not to look, despite my disinterest. In my peripherals, I noticed Will Smith, Matt Damon, Emma Stone. It was like being watched. Being judged. Being tested.

“Do you like my eyes?” She asked, and picked up the rhythm, her silver rings cold on my dick.

I nodded, moving my head, but my eyes remained fixed. “The most beautiful eyes I have ever seen.” It wasn’t a lie. Hey eyes were remarkable. Blue-green. Speckled with gold.

“They are contacts,” she told me.

“Oh,” I said. I didn’t care. Beauty is beauty, and I told her so.

“You are sweet.” She massaged my balls in one hand, tickled my shaft with those gaudy, sorceress talons in the other.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Do you want to look at my tits?”

“Yes, please.”

“Well you can’t.” It was a test. “If you look away, it’s over. And so are we.”

Again I nodded. I blinked, but didn’t dare look away.

“Tell me about my eyes,” she demanded.

“They are beautiful.”

She eased her grip on my cock. She slowed her stroke to a standstill. “You can do better than that.”

She wasn’t wrong, and deserved better, besides. So I did my best to tap into my poetic depths. To do so, I had to ignore the mounting pleasure, the teasing fluctuation of her rewards and punishment. And, of course, I could not look away, or break her stare. I was forced to avoid my tendency to look up and to the right, which is what I do when amassing deep thoughts. It was difficult, but I managed. I told her about her eyes.

“Your eyes are starlight on azurite. Two foreign moons that hover in a far-off blessed galaxy. Your eyes are fire, blue flames and comet tails. Precious gems. Baubles I want to worship, want to drown in.”

Like before, she massaged my balls.

“Your eyes are inhuman. They are the eyes of god. I am now religious. Entirely devout.”

Two hands on my shaft, and the rhythmic expertise of delicately wringing it dry.

“If I never breathe again, I want to die looking into your eyes.”

She rewarded me with a smile, which I dared not look at, but I could see her frenulum piercing shining from the fringe of my field of vision. Then she popped the last buttons on her flannel, letting the shirt slide off her shoulders, down her arms. For a moment, it hung like laundry on my penis. Then she tossed it to the floor.

“Tell me more about my eyes,” she said. “Tell me how much they mean to you. How much you love them.”

At this point, I was close to cumming, astounded that I hadn’t yet. I took a breath, ready to offer my sermon about her eyes. “Your eyes are forbidden treasure, each one its own Cave of Wonders. In them, I see sun-glinting doubloons, a genie lamp, and three wishes: your left eye, your right eye, and the perfect gap between them. Your eyes are…” I had more to say on the subject, but that’s where my sermon ended. I did well while I lasted, but it ended prematurely, if you take my meaning.

But it wasn’t my fault. No really, hear me out:

I wasn’t looking at the screen —I was being good, looking straight into her blue-green eyes, and nothing else— but I couldn’t help noticing something surface in the background; a Netflix still of one of their featured films, Clash of the Titans. It popped up on the television, a monster made of clay, a mythical woman with snakes instead of hair. It was a masterpiece made by Ray Harryhausen, special effects guru of his time. It was a frightening, iconic, image of the 1981 adventure of my youth. It was the unforgettable Gorgon bitch, the beautiful but deadly Medusa.

You weren’t supposed to look into her eyes. If you did, you turned to stone—forever. This crossed my mind while I stared into a god-like woman’s eyes. Her beauty was mythical, and it had me asking: Is she a Gorgon?

Then I broke the stare between us, and not just a blink. I looked away, down at her tits.

I couldn’t see it before, what with my eyes locked on hers, but I had noticed a dark shape nestled between her breasts. I figured it was a tattoo, and, sure enough, I was right. Looking at it now, I clearly deciphered its image. Lifelike and intricate, staring right at me with blue-green eyes so realistic that I swear they may have blinked —I shit you not— it was Medusa’s fang-baring grimace and snake-laden locks.

The handjob stopped, and my dick, which had been turned to stone, heroic and statuesque, quickly went limp, and small. But I came anyway. I blew my top the moment I saw Medusa on the screen, and blew my load on Medusa inked between those perfect tits.

And it’s just like she told me. I broke the stare, so I broke the spell. I looked away, and that was that. Her flannel went back and she shrouded its open flaps with her serpentine dreads. “Get the fuck out of here,” she commanded. 

I tried to apologize.

“No, don’t even look at me!”

That’s rich, I had thought, coming from her! Misses Don’t Look Away. But I left, just as she asked me to.

But before I turned away to walk out the door, the screen behind her blinked and shifted. And just like that, Medusa was gone, like an ancient myth, almost forgotten. It was Squid Game or Stranger Things. Something like that. Something altogether forgettable.

Thinking about it now, I can’t recall her name, but I’ll never forget her face. I couldn’t forget her eyes even if I tried.

But what do I call her? No fucking clue. How might I look her up? I’m afraid I cannot (all homes look the same in Seward, and I never did mark the address).

No matter how hard I try, I just can’t remember. Was it Marisa? Melissa? I guess I’ll never know for sure. But she’s the one with the eyes that can seize your soul, so I give her a moniker as mighty as myth. She’s the portrait of ink between her precious tits. She’s Medusa, who turned me (a small part of me) into stone.