by Cheri Zodd
(03/13/02)
Every man wants to be with two women. I want to be with two men. It works for us. Schizophrenics fucking. We two, so intent on being the goodcitizen, the goodparent, we can't even fuck. We have to send our doppelgangers out into the world to meet in four-star hotels, like sending in-laws on vacation.
I like watching you fuck that otherself. She is one hot bitch. She loves to fuck. I would do her. But sometimes her mouth gets me into trouble. (My father used to tell me, one of these days, your mouth is going to get your ass in trouble...guess I'm that ass.) She doesn't have a name. She's the bitch. The cunt. The fuckwhore. She's anyone you want her to be. She's not sane. Last week she begged you to whip me with a belt. With a leather belt as if I were your property to whip. To own. I screamed at her, Are you fucking crazy? That's going to hurt like....aaahhhh! And you hit me. Hard. It wasn't pretend. Just the way she likes it. Real. Intense.
I hide behind her, afraid of accepting the things she wants. And I can feel the heat rising from her as your otherself brings the leather belt down upon her wet and willing flesh, her eager offering. She is reds and oranges, brilliant yellows. She is untethered from my world, and she goes where she pleases. I know where she wants to go with you, I see it in her mind, and it frightens and excites me. It's that place where I used to snorkel in the Caribbean...a beautiful expanse of white sand and coral that suddenly falls off into the depths, a sheer, terrifying drop up which anything might slip, tentacles curling, unfurling like leather whips to wrap around me, pull me down into the darkness. Once I swam out over that shelf, that edge of the world, and was overtaken by a fear so great I mistook it for instinct and kicked frantically for the shallows, my mind screaming, I'm a dolphin, fast and sleek and dangerous, and trying desperately to make it so.
Being with you is like hovering on the brink of that abyss. It's seductive, being with her, with you. As insidious as opium, enticing and addictive.
Maybe it's just an adrenaline dependency. Perhaps there is a three-step program. Betty Ford, you useless cunt, where are you when I need you?
But she wouldn't let me go to Betty Ford. She wants you. She lives when you slap her, whip her, rape her. I can taste her then, and she's dolphin vindaloo. She's hot mulled wine.
And your otherself. Jack Nicholson cast as Pan. His eyes light when she whispers More...oh, baby, more, when she offers my bruised and aching tits in both hands. She spreads my asscheeks and begs him to ram his thick cock into my tight ass, and he does it. He wants me to feel it. He wants to hear me scream and curse and cry. His cock rises as he whips me. He pushes me so far sometimes it scares even the fuckwhore, the slut. She turns away and leaves me sore and uncertain and naked to the soul, alone in a strange room with a stranger.
Sometimes you know. You pull me close, stroke my hair, let me know you're in the room, too.
Four of us lying in bed, thinking thoughts from different worlds. A schizophrenic orgy.
