She was so beautiful, I took her hand in mine and whispered those words she’d so long longed to hear: “Shut up, stupid.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ve kinda gotten bored of talking anyway.”

“I wish I could believe that this time,” I said, which was one of my most popular catch-phrases. I had a few thousand T-shirts with that emblazoned across the front, in cardboard boxes in the garage. We used them as grease-rags and cum-rags and occasionally even clothing. 

Yeah, she was beautiful, for an ugly girl. She had a face that made me think of dead batteries and a body that moved like sand in a sock. She made me want to fuck, she made me want to masturbate, she made me want to see my cock sawn off and thrown out the window of a very fast flying jet plane. She made me want to go back to secondary school and curse out my calculus mentor for instructing me on cunnilingism instead of mathematics. 

“That might just be a metaphor, but you know what I mean.”

That was another of my witty rejoinders, that we plastered across bumper-stickers and billboards.

I was in love with her. Because I fucking hated myself, and she was the best way for me to express it. 

She was in love with me, because she hated fucking herself. It was a similar situation, but slightly differently shaped and sized, like getting your porn on wide-screen instead of that crappy aspect-ratio, with the bumpy pan-and-scan when you want to see the full scene. 

Well, we called it love. I’m not sure what the police and media referred to it as, but the townspeople certainly drove us out of the city with flaming torches and bad words.

Nothing’s going to help you, when we come for you.

“I love you, I love you, I love you so much; won’t you wear your leash?”

She looks at me like I’ve just stumbled into a patch of barbed-wire in winter; like she can see frost-and-rust covered needles about to start digging into my skin, searching out red hot blood to turn to a spray of steam. 

She looks at me like I’m some sort of predator designed to help her get into bed. Like executioner is a sacred sort of occupation.  

I lead her on; she knows where we’ll going, or rather, she knows exactly how we’ll end, but that’s the obvious part, right? Everybody knows how we’re going to end, how we’ll all end; with a shutter and a spurt. 

She looks at me like she’s going to wrap herself around my neck and drag me back down to earth. 

She looks up at me, because she’s so fucking pretty on her knees.
She looks up at me, because she’s so fucking beautiful with a mouthful of my needs.