Punch drunk, love III

Punch drunk, love III

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

Philogymist, husband and educator. Misogynist, racist and pervert. There are plenty of strings to Max Stoner’s bow. The thing is: the misogynist is winning the day, and Max wants out of his marriage by any means necessary. A rye, violent insight into one man’s world and the woman he shares it with.

Summary

Philogymist, husband and educator. Misogynist, racist and pervert. There are plenty of strings to Max Stoner’s bow. The thing is: the misogynist is winning the day, and Max wants out of his marriage by any means necessary. A rye, violent insight into one man’s world and the woman he shares it with.

Content

Submitted: June 14, 2013

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Content

Submitted: June 14, 2013

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Louisa never really had a crush on me. This is rare. Most of the girls in my school want to fuck me.

(In my opinion, a girl’s sexual awakening happens around the age of ten, with a helping hand (finger) that is).

I have tried ignoring these calls for cock, accepting them for what they are -  a fleeting interest in a sexually arousing father-figure, rather than a meaningful or deep-felt expression of love (because that is what I am after at the end of the day). If I can’t let go, I try talking to these girls like the grown-up I’m pretending to be. I sit them down in the classroom, place a hand on their knee and tell them that such feelings are perfectly normal, reassuring even; a clear, pure birthing of their sexual being.

I am a figure they look up to. I am a man of experience. I am intelligent. Articulate. Toned. I remind them of pin-ups in their girlie mags; the guy next door in their favourite soap (I stroke their knee at this point). But. Damn! There’s no future in this. What can I offer them? (I want to confess all. I feel the need welling up inside. Tell them, Max. Tell them about the whores, the abuse, the rape. The black goo you see hanging off of everything. A sticky, sickening paste).

I get out the class register and tick off the boys who could make a nice date. Ice-cream and jelly. The cinema. Walking hand-in-hand in the park.

“Jeff’s cute”, I say. (Guess where this perv’s hand is now?).

She shakes her head.

“Craig? Clive? Michael? Hell, I’d fuck him.”

And as the negatives tumble forth; as her tears freeze, we both understand that there is only here and now, now and here. Me and her. God knows (and he is listening, I just know it) my intentions were honourable. God knows I could just have a kiss and cuddle. God knows this cunt will fucking blab to everyone…

(My hand is over her mouth. My hand is at her panties).

 

I have no friends. Never have. I know people. I recognise that work colleagues, neighbours, guys from the gym are humans, tissue and flesh, spit and vomit, who I have to, under social obligation, find a cordial word for now again. Associating, nay, socialiesing, makes me appear… appear normal. (I will soon need character witnesses, those who will serve to keep me out of hell’s kitchen, my arse out of cock’s way). I’ve even been known to go to a pub; to share in the idiocy of others’ lives; to drink and eat until eleven when I can then, exhausted by my attempts to blend in, go out and play and relieve myself of that surging pain in my head; that gnawing violence that can only be calmed by the loss of blood (someone else’s, of course).

Since the wedding, I have forgotten about the waifs who make up the social construct of my ‘family’. Tadpoles. Maggots (they get inside of everything). I celebrate no one’s birthday, not even my own. I ignore Christmas. Easter. (Claire no longer has any idea what day it is, so she doesn’t give a shit). I pay no heed to the opinion of others as I know fucking best. I don’t believe I have anything new to learn. (Only a whore can teach me new tricks).

Given these words of elegance, it may appear strange to you that I have chosen a career as social as teaching. You see: it’s not just that I have much more in common with your average twelve-year-old girl than I do with my peers; it’s not just that school cunt never surpasses the age of sixteen; it’s not even that I can be sure that teen breasts will never lose their firmness and freshly-carved-jamon taste. Nope. Even that isn’t the real reason we are where we are. No. The real reason I teach is because I need to commit nothing of my own soul, whilst I can pillage on that of others. I can do serious, irreparable damage, you see. I am a hunter, bringing down the future generation. I stab hope in the heart. I shit on supposed raw talent. I gut those who have confidence in their abilities. I play with my pupil’s innards. I wear their little, bloody panties on my head. I burn mankind at the stake. FUCK YOU AND THE FUTURE GENERATION!

How could such a cunt become a teacher, I hear you cry? How could the state allow such a being into our schools? Did they not do tests on him, you know, those background checks; analyse his mind? Did they not do this? Could they not see what he wanted to do; what he was after? Did they not hear the sharpening of knives, the licking of lips, the cackles of laughter?

Claire didn’t see it. You didn’t see it. Why should they?

Don’t be so fucking smarmy, cunt.

We all wear masks. We all play roles. You think you would have sussed me, huh? Think again. Don’t act like you are any better. Don’t think in Nazi Germany or Stalin’s Soviet Union you would have put your hand up in class and have said: “I’m not sure I agree with that.” What makes you so hip? You’re rolled up too tight to know who you are. You undress with the fucking bathroom door locked. You switch the light off when you fuck with your husband. You look at the ceiling and think of The Queen when the gynecologist swabs the inside of your cunt You go home and he says: how was it? And you say: oh, just fine. He reads his paper. The TV whispers in the background. You say: cup of tea, dear?. He says: that would be nice. You bring the tea in. Pour him his. Pour you yours. He says: murder mystery on tonight. You say: oh, lovely. What do you really want to say?

Me? I’m more honest than you’ll ever be.

I unfurl it. Flop it out. Thrust it around. Jam it into every tight nook and cranny. I stand naked, arms outstretched. I am screaming: Here I Am. This is me. No tricks. No games. I am excited by life. I grab it by its sweaty cojones. And this is why I am having the time of my life.

 

I teach three boys who are faggots. I have told all three they are queers: I rang them up one Saturday night, nice and late, one after the other. It was a social call, I said. I am here to guide and support you through these testing times. You are gay, I said. A dirty and cock-sucking boy, I said. Your fantasies revolve around images of mating horses, soldiers and prison lock-downs. You took notes whilst watching Silence of the Lambs, I said. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be ashamed. There’s no need to cry, I said. It’s best if you tell mum and dad. Before you go to bed, I said. Right now is actually best, I said. I’ll call you back in ten minutes. Then you can let me know how it went, I said… So? I said. Really?! I said. Damn. That’s bad, I said. Let’s resolve this. By going to Paris, I said. Club P______: more than one thousand square metres of backroom, I said. You go in and strip to your pants and shoes. Keep your shoes on, I said, as the floors can get really sticky in there. It’s dimly lit. You can’t see faces, I said. You’ll have sniffed poppers, I said. That’s what you get with each drink. Plus a condom, I said. Once I got head-butted ‘cause some cunt said my cock was too small, I said. But you don’t need to worry about that because I’ll be holding your hand, I said. Are you ready?

After I’ve spoken to Charlie and Ronald and eleven-year-old Corey; after I’ve raped and violated and buggered their domestic bliss, I feel I merit a little bit of care and attention. I want to share with my intellectual wife. I want to chat like we used to: serious shit. Plath and her lame similes; the complexities of translating Dostoevsky; the psychoanalytical patterns that permeate Gorky’s autobiographical trilogy…

Claire is lying spread out on the floor in the centre of the living room. She is wearing my grey tracksuit bottoms. She is wearing my grey hoody. Her legs are spread. Her eyes are shut. She is moaning, playing with her clit. (She’s been doing this a lot recently, and little else besides).

“Claire, My Most Respected, Illustrious and Reverend Lord and Master, I was wondering if we could talk, like we did, back in the day, when we first met. What do you say, huh?”

Moaning. Playing with her clit.

“Claire?”

“Claire’s not here right now. Bit if you’d like to leave a message…”

“Claire. Baby. Honey. Can you… stop playing with your clit, just for a moment. Poshalustya?”

“Mmmm…”

“Claire, we could go out. Would you like that?”

“Mmmm…”

“… go to a restaurant. Melrose. Harry’s for drinks. Pastels. It’s really impossible to get a table at Pastel’s, but for you…”

She keeps working her clit.

She has no make-up on. She hasn’t plucked her eyebrows for some time. Her skin looks unwashed, uncleansed by Clinique. Her nails are grubby, nibbled. The mole on her left cheek is sprouting hair.

I go up to the bathroom. I take out from the white cabinet a small black pair of scissors and a small pair of nail clippers. I find some tweezers, some cotton pads. Her Clarins lipstick. The eye-liner I bought her. The mascara she bought her.

She’s still playing with her clit.

“I don’t want to… I’m just going to tidy you up a bit, Claire. Make you all pretty. All pretty for the ball. The monster’s ball. Would you like that? Would you?”

“Mmmm…”

I pluck between her eyebrows. I clip the mole hair. I clean her face with the cotton pads and the Clarins (in three easy steps). I apply my Avéne Skin Recovery cream (recovery from a loss? From a death?) to her moon face. I paint her lips, her eyes and eyelashes. This is the first time I’ve paid this much attention to a living, human body. I feel the need to cry and have absolutely no idea why. This. Is. Terrifying.

“There. All done, my princess.”

I stroke her hair. I kiss her cheek.

She’s too fat for me to lift, to take up to our room. So I bring the bedding to her: three pillows, the big duvet. I light some scented candles. I place a bottle of cold beer near her head just in case she gets thirsty, and I lie down on the sofa and watch my wife play with her clit until I fall asleep.

 

The headmistress of our piss-pot comprehensive is Mrs Diane Kowalski. She’s called me into her brown office to have a ‘serious chat’ about ‘some worrying allegations’ and ‘rumours’ that are heading my way; they could bring the school ‘into disrepute’.

Diane Kowalski has a massive pair of tits. Fucking huge. They define her. It’s all men see. The boys gossip and joke about them. There’s a crude drawing of her in the boys’ toilets on the ground floor. She’s naked, milking her own tits, a massive bush between her weighty thighs, as a group of angel-winged, flying cocks jizz onto her face (I didn’t bother signing my work).

As she talks, I imagine her shit.

“…are you listening to me?”

“Attentively.”

“It’s, well… these rumours. I ignored them at first because, as you know, girls… clearly have a thing for you. By which I mean… they find you very… attractive (here she touches her hair). Very. And, well, girls will be girls (fucking hooray for that). So I really didn’t pay any heed to them. Until…”

She looks down at the paper she has in front of her.

“What are the rumours?”

“The rumours? Well, yes…”

“I can guess, you understand. However, if my name is being sullied, I would like to know what they are saying, and who is fanning the flames of rumour, as it were.”

“Well, I can’t disclose names.”

“Why not? I don’t understand. The accused deserves a fair trial.” I wink. “Do you think I could get something to drink? It’s a little stuffy in here.”

“Oh. Sure. Water? Tea?”

“Water’s good.”

Kowalski picks up the phone. Hangs up. She stands.

“I’ll get you that water,” she smiles.

“Thank you.”

As soon as the door closes, I grab the sheet of paper from her desk. I scan quickly. It’s a letter from a doctor. I see the name Marcia Tales. (Marcia. Marcia? Nope: don’t remember her). I see the words ‘broken hymen’ and ‘only twelve years old’ and ‘oral sex’ and ‘Max Power’ (Me! That’s me!) and ‘the girl alleges…’

The door opens.

“Here we go. I made myself a cup of tea.”

The paper’s back.

“Thank you,” I say, taking my water.

I gulp it down.

“Are you okay?” Kowalski asks.

“Yes… well, my wife: she’s going under the knife today…”

“Oh, my!”

“Yes. There’s… there’s a tumour in her fellatio, I mean, fallopian tubes. Big as a golf ball, they say.”

“Oh, Max.”

“We’ve… we’ve been trying for a child. But… This. I…”

She reaches out a hand.

“That’s…

“It’s fucking tragic, Diane. Fucking tragic.”

(I’m squeezing my anus, bleeding out a lone tear a lá Hollywood sad-ending).

She pushes the paper aside. That letter.

(I’m stepping up to accept my Oscar).

“I love Claire, my wife, so much. So much. I’m… I’m just terrified, if she makes it through… Well, she’ll take her life anyway. And where I will be then? I’ll have no choice. No choice.”

(And away we go: the tear runs down my cheek. The Academy is on its feet).

Kowalski swallows hard. She looks at the letter. And she pushes it aside.

“Let’s talk about this latter, Max. It can wait.”

 

Marcia Tales lives at 15 C_______ Street. Her house is a small terraced building from the Victorian era. The bricks are a dusty, desert red; the door virgin white. There is a little front garden behind a fence. Some roses grow there. (It’s a long time since I bought Claire flowers. I used to love buying her big bouquets of red and white roses. I always bought her the velvety ones, always an odd number. The last time I gave her fifteen roses. Stay with me, I said, and one day I’ll buy you the whole shop. Stay with me, she said, as if such a thought had never crossed her mind, that I was more than a toad in a hole, a cock in her cunt).

It is a nice place to live, above all for a mulatto girl. I don’t know which of her parents is black, unfortunately. And I don’t have the time to hang around to find out.

I hit the gas, ploughing through the tarmac. When I hit Marcia Tales, I’m doing forty-five miles per hour. She slaps into my car, the impact sending her up, onto and over me roof, before she disappears.

The music I am listening to (Run DMC – Wank This Way) cushions the sound of her landing on the road. I check my rear mirror. There she is, still and small, getting smaller, smaller, until she disappears. We are never to see each other again. That’s a shame.

I ring Kowalski’s house at three in the morning. A man answers. I whisper into the phone: big titties. Big fucking titties. When I come, I hang up.

 

 


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