Mala Magazine

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Pure. Unadulterated. Unmitigated. Truth
No Apologies
Fuck what you heard.
&
Not for the faint of heart.

Mala 2006

Once upon a time I touted myself as a writer of fantasy. Oft-times I wrote these tales because the fantastic saved me. The hidden copses where fauns cantered and unicorns hid was my sole retreat since my every day is fraught with horror. My days are filled with the never-ending survival struggle, my nights plagued by demons that haunt the shortest of my dreams. How my judgment erred. I am no panderer of whimsy to be compared to Madelaine and Octavia. I am a speaker of truth. So hear me. So here it is.

She: Then

She knew what the night held. While in truth it repulsed her scattered morals, the voyeur in her could not resist the temptation to at least see what it was all about. When the offer was made to come along because the usual playmate had cancelled, her lip curled in derision even as she agreed to go. She was adamant to the nth degree that she would not partake in any of the impending debauchery; she was there merely to ensure his entrance into the party. A swing party. She was to attend a swing party, and her stomach turned over.

She dressed with purpose, determined to put her best foot forward as usual. The kimono-styled dress clung to her slender form well down her calves with a slit that started below the knee and ended somewhere near heaven. Her red hair, teased to the limit, hung down her back with a slightly devil-take-the-hindmost look as if this was how she awoke each day. Crammed into her clutch were her favorite tools, boy shorts to flatter her not so boyish posterior and a close fitting tank that made up for what she lacked. Powdered and rouged, she sipped Cavalier slowly while she paced to quell the tumbling in her middle as she waited for her transport. And sooner than not, they arrived.

The ride was uneventful for anyone accustomed to driving with a mad man. The banter was playful as they tried to ease her obvious tension. The very same tension that screamed past the nonchalant look on her face and seeped into her squarely set shoulders, her erect posture straining at the belt across her lap. The muscles in her neatly folded legs flexed and tightened as if at any moment she would bolt from the barreling vehicle and outrun it. She tossed her head with a seeming carelessness all the while wondering if her senses had taken leave of their home in her head. A swing party. “What the fuck am I doing?” she whispered below the bass. Around her they laughed, not hearing her quiet plaint.

When the little tin came around, she chose half a blue pill. A half only, considering the last time she indulged when she had seen him unexpectedly and went on to overindulge to a dangerous degree. A half only. For now.

They arrived at the nondescript hotel located somewhere South of Nowhere and made their entrance. A ludicrous amount of money changed hands when they stepped off of the elevator on the topmost floor that had been rented for the night of fornication. Having been directed down the hall, they entered the large suite where the initial mingling would take place and it did not take more than a glance to realize that they were the only attractive people there. She was immediately incensed. These were the people that her friend wanted to share her body with? They barely deserved to see the girl’s feet much less any other part of her. Well she knew with a solid surety that no one there would get within spitting distance. Not even if she were to fall into a raging inferno. And dance an Irish jig. With feet on fire and ass soon to catch.
No.
Fucking.
Way.

Sensing her extreme distaste, magically the little tin appeared from some secret pocket in a ridiculously oversized jacket and this time she helped herself. The least she could do was have a party in her head where only she was invited. She mixed herself a drink while she watched women the size of wildebeest mill around the rapidly disappearing finger food laden on the table. Honestly! Who in the hell brings hors d’oeuvres to feed whales? The ice cubes rattled in the murky liquid, reminding her that cranberry juice was not to be purchased at all-night bodegas, and resignedly she took another sip.

They gathered around the watering hole to watch porn and deride the studs and sluts as if their misshapen bodies could reproduce even half of the acts that wended their way across the screen. She snorted into her glass and murmured a demure “Oh nothing,” when asked what she found so amusing by men that glanced furtively at her like the last hot dog at a summer barbeque.

Then it hit. Hard.

The warm feeling swelled from her middle and spread throughout her body, clouding her mind and softening her eyes. Each nerve on her skin was at attention and felt the swirl and eddy of the manufactured breeze blowing through the air conditioned room. She shifted in her seat comfortably cat-like as that naughty space where glory began moistened and pulsed. She could feel her heart beat between her legs and race up her back. She fell into the moment.

And it was through this sex haze she peered and was truly disgusted. He was not here and what was left should be charged for reckless endangerment of the lovely. There was no outlet for the urge that reveled in the icy slickness of the glass forming wet circles on her dress soaking through to her hot thigh. No hair to pull. No face to demand release from with urgent whispers and darting tongues. Dammit.
They were all changing and she was told that she would have to leave if she didn’t at least come out of her clothes. Outwardly she blanched before she complied, inwardly she mocked them. What was the sense of viewing what you cannot have? Oh ye of horrid body and even worse face. She tittered into her hand like a novice Geisha until the pleading look on her friend’s face drove her into the bathroom and out of her dress.

And she took her time.

One button. Two buttons. It fell from her body in a silken rush, lighting her nerves anew. Nude, for she seldom bothered with undergarments, she admired her slight form in the full length mirror attached to the bath at a rather advantageous angle. “Not bad for a pixie, mother of one,” she proclaimed to no one in particular (as alone as she was) and ran her hands slowly over her skin, delighting, as usual, in the sensations she was well adept at inciting alone.

Finally, although altogether too soon for the climax she sought, the incessant pounding at the door forced her to don le petites she had toted to the affair. She stretched luxuriously before slipping her feet into the 4 inch sandals and exiting, door left. They watched her as she walked out, her usual “fuck you” stride now lengthened into a strut of catastrophic proportions. Obviously no one had taught any of them that staring was tres gauche.

Some had forgone the change and gotten right down to business.

They pulled and pushed, grunted and groaned in a most insipid fashion, looking for all the world like Rhinos rutting in the mud. One powerful “ick” chased another through her fuzzy mind. “Ick, ick, ick!” And like a train wreck she could not help but watch as one man assisted another in holding the giant slabs some mammoth called ‘legs’ apart so that he could lick her OH, NO, GOD, NO!

She backed away from the scene like Jamie Lee in Halloween smack dab into another little shop of horrors because there was no way, not a chance in hell, that between that belly and that rear anything but a needle pricking an elephant was going on. And the sounds? Good lord. The huffing and panting was deafening as if they had all recently traversed innumerable flights and were at a loss for oxygen. Spying her purse, she groped around for her phone, desperate to have some one save her from this farce they called sex.

This was not sex. She did not know many things, but sex she was keenly aware of. Sex was something intimately innate. Sex was root, branch and stem. She knew the head thrown back in abandon. She had heard her name whispered in the dark of night, straining for air. She had skittered away only to lay spent and shaking. She had stretched to her full length above as a rhythm continued below. She was the bite mark on a shoulder. She was the bed a full two feet from where it began. She was the slow thrust and the gentle acceptance driving to distraction. She was the tilt of the pelvis and the arch of the back. She had come away with a snarl on her face with wisps of hair entwined in her fingers. She was the skin beneath the nails and the sting of sweat. She sang the song of dawn and endless motion. She was the cry and the moan that gave the look of triumph. In a way, she was sex. And in the midst of all of this jostling and wrestling she did not belong HERE.

Escaping into the hallway away from the dank miasma of musk and Crisco, she drew a deep breath. Fingers caressing the buttons as if each were he lover, she dialed the only person she knew close enough to rescue her. His voice was a blessing. “You have GOT to come get me man! I’m rolling and surrounded by cows… I swear somebody mooed!” He laughed into the phone. That’s his homegirl, he expected no less. Safe with the promise of a lord-be-praised rescue, she sauntered down the hall to wait through the hellishly long minutes until her white horse, or Maxima to be exact, arrived. She knew it would not be long before the vultures flocked to the kill. And to be sure, so it was.

They came in their towels and dare it be said, baggy briefs, one after another attempting to make idle conversation. She fielded their quasi-polite banter with a stone faced looks and monosyllabic responses. They glanced at her leeringly and her stomach churned at the thought of their skin coming within striking distance of her own. One drew too close so she rose from her perch and traced a striation in the carpet before her with one Candylicious sandal-clad toe. When she licked her lips and prepared to speak they drew a collective breath. She nearly choked on not quite imagined bile before she said:

“Not one of you motherfuckers better cross this line.”

Fin.

Four hours out of one life. Want more?
Mala Magazine.
I told y’all.

Its coming, fuckers… its coming.

Lyrics of the Day

“I could be cannon food, destroyed a thousand times. Reborn as fortune’s child, to judge another’s crime…”