Nashville

On 21 May 1960 John O’Brien, son of Judy and Bill, was born in Oxford Ohio.

Eighteen year later, he graduated from Lakewood High School, also in Ohio.

One year later he married Lisa Kirkwood.

Three years later he and Lisa moved to Los Angeles, where he busied himself with living as Californians do, and in time wrote a novel.

The novel was read by an industrious fellow named Mark Figgis. Mark wrote a screenplay based on the novel. Mark composed music for the soundtrack of the movie that would be made from the screenplay. Mark found investors willing to part with $4,000,000 to make the screenplay into a movie. Mark found actors. Mark couldn’t afford the high costs of 35mm filming, so he filmed in Super16. And being the industrious fellow he is, he directed the film. Despite his industriousness, he wasn’t always able to get permits for shooting street scenes, and those scenes were shot in one take to avoid the inconvenience of arrest.

Mark was an industrious fellow.

In April, 1994, at the age of thirty-four, when the movie based on the novel he had written was a mere two weeks into production, John O’Brien committed suicide with a gun.

The novel, 210 pages, was published in 1995 by Grove Press.

The movie had a limited release on October 27, 1995. Critics praised it.

On February 9, 1996 the film was released nationwide.

Sixteen days after its nationwide release, at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in Los Angeles, on 25 March 1996, on his first nomination, Nicholas Cage accepted the Best Actor Award for 1995 for his portrayal of Ben Sanderson in Leaving Las Vegas, the movie based on John O’Brien’s book.

Eleven years later, on August 20, 2007, while I was writing the beginning of a piece about fucking the boss’s daughter and saz lay sleeping in my hotel room bed, I watched Leaving Las Vegas for the first time. I was particularly struck by Elisabeth Shue’s graphic portrayal of the recipient of an anal gang rape. I was so struck that I found myself reading about the movie, and how it came to be made.

I went to bed, late, very late.

I woke up far too early, showered, dressed, and drove to a meeting. Six hours later, and the meeting was thankfully ended ahead of schedule.

I returned to the room to find a delightfully tarted up sazmira. Red high healed closed pointed toe fuck me shoes. Black stockings, seamed. Black vinyl miniskirt. Red satin corset. Red lips painted in “Fuck-me shoe red” by Elizabeth Arden.

I was wearing the khaki suit I had custom made by the Turks at Camp Endurance when I was stuck there for a few days on a convoy layover. Three button, summer weight. Blue French cuffed shirt I had made by Chang the Tailor at the Dragon Gate in Seoul the last time I was in Korea. Mother of pearl and gold filigree cufflinks the size of a small third world country’s national debt.

At first, I didn’t think.

I didn’t think. I acted. I walked over to her, back handed her across those red fuck me shoe colored lips and shoved her to her knees. I grabbed two fists of hair and like a good whore, she grabbed my belt and zipper and pushed my pants aside and sucked.

On page six of the deceased, dead by suicide John O’Brien’s book, there is a passage wherein he describes Sera, the leading whore of his novel, “…And she is a good thing, good at this thing. Paying for and using her, there are always men available. The tricks turn to her, for she glistens with the appealing inaccessibility of the always introspective. They turn to the buyable quench—no lie, a promise in the panties—and she plays out the bargain with the competence of one consistently able to hit well the mark.”

Saz can consistently hit the mark.

At first, I hadn’t thought, I had simply acted. But as she sucked, I thought. And the first thought that came to mind was the image of Elisabeth Shue being anally gang raped and beaten.

And so, eleven years after it’s release – eleven hours after I first saw it, I felt compelled to pay homage to dead Mr. O’Brien, and living Ms. Nominated But Not Awarded Shue, by doing my best to reenact the scene that occurs roughly 5/7ths of the way into the movie.

I hauled her up by the hair, her teeth scraping my cock as it schlurped out of her “Fuck me, Shue” mouth and threw her ass up across the bed. I pushed her skirt up and she squirmed, and squealed in anticipation of the coming sex.

I spit on her ass and again on my hand and smeared my spit with hers. She squirmed and squealed. I pressed the head of my cock against her ass. She squirmed and squealed.

And then I grabbed both her shoulders, pushed her hard against the mattress and stabbed into her ass, full and deep, one hard shove, skin tugging resistance and then all in.

She stopped squirming and squealing. She screamed. She cursed. She turned and clawed back at me, furious with rage, anger, betrayal, murderous anger burning in her black eyes.

I drove my fist into her shoulder, harder than I’ve ever punched her, a solid driving punch that said, “Stop what you’re doing.” Normally a punch for her is foreplay. Normally it stokes the fires and makes her squeal and squirm and fight back with yet more industriousness; normally it has the exact opposite effect of enforcing compliance.

Normally I don’ hit her as hard as I did.

There’s a moment in the movie right before the rape starts with earnest that one of the men punches her like that. And the camera moves in to a close up of her face and you see the wheels inside turning and she decides that further resistance is just going to make it worse, and she stops, she lays there and takes it all.

Saz took it all.

In the movie, Sera gets punched in the head during the rape. In the movie, Sera gets punched in the face during the rape.

I don’t punch in the head. I don’t punch the face.

This was different. This was homage. This was homage to a two minute scene of a movie. A two minute scene in a movie that was based on the book of a man who had committed suicide. A movie made on a shoe string budget with no street permits. A movie nominated for awards. A movie that received awards. A movie that included a brutal rape scene. A movie for which Elisabeth Shue was nominated for Best Actress but was ultimately passed over in favor of Susan Sarandon’s portrayal of a nun in Dead Man Walking, a film in which she did not portray the victim of a brutal anal gang rape.

I pressed my fist against her cheek.

I pushed down, pressing her head against the floral patterned bed covers.

I pulled back a bit and tapped her cheekbone with my knuckles.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

No, this wouldn’t do. This was not proper homage.

I pushed deep inside her ass and ground my pubic mound against her, shoving deep and hard, hurting her.

I pulled my hand back a couple inches and gave her cheek a little jab -- a tentative little jab, barely a tap. The illusion of a punch.

It wasn’t enough. I, her, this – all wanted, needed more.

I pulled my hand back a couple inches and gave her mouth a little jab – again, a tentative little jab, again, barely a tap. Again, the illusion of a punch.

Again, it wasn’t enough. I wanted to split her lip, to feel the flesh yield between the hard bone of my knuckles and the hard enamel of her teeth. To see the warm red blood trickle out the corners of her mouth, the chromatic clash of wet new blood red spilling over fuck-me shoe red lips and polyester hotel bedspread red gardenia bloom print.

I hit her again, harder. And again, harder. I heard her teeth click together.

I rapped her a solid one against her check bone, but again, it wasn’t enough. I wanted to feel that flesh mush between the hard bone of my knuckles and the hard bone of her cheek, to know that the next day she’d have a Techni-Color blue and purple bloom around her eye.

I popped her a quick one on the back of her head, the hard occipital bone safer than the thinner bones on the side of her head.

She squealed. She squirmed. She moaned. I felt her ass tighten. And then I felt and heard and smelled and saw and knew her come.

And we made homage to the two minute scene in the movie based on the book of a dead man, a movie he had never seen, a book written seven years before I met saz, by a man who could never have known how accurately his words on page 19 of the book published after his death would describe her.

“She was haunted, pursued, tortured emotionally, sometimes physically, day and night by the one who had made her the object of his obsession. She was and would become his last, best gold chain, an unwilling bauble on his furry chest.”

Deus ex graviditas

Over the past few months, I have entered into an intimate relationship with god. Our communication is direct, clear and frequent. God is a dominant, and I am his submissive. He guides and shapes my behavior.

It would appear that B.F. Skinner went to heaven when he died, and it would also appear that he and god spend a lot of time talking while idling away eternity on fishing trips in the ether. God has adopted operant conditioning as his tool of correcting my unruly behavior.

His punishments are clear and swift, and his rewards are sweet succulent reminders that his love is unconditional, true and eternal.

The first time I heard the voice of god and felt his hand guiding my life was at Blockbuster video.

For years, I have routinely committed a regular and continuous series of small acts of violence against my fellow man – I have road rage. I rage, I yell, I curse. The only thing that keeps me from slaughtering my fellow highway travelers is fear of getting caught and the slightest bit of respect for the rule that I’m not allowed to kill people when inside my home country.

For years I wondered why my neighborhood was populated by the ugly.

On my morning commute, I drive through an urban neighborhood. The women who walked the sidewalks of that neighborhood were wildebeests, foully misshapen blobs who could only walk in single file on even the widest of sidewalks, a visual punishment that made me think that perhaps Oedipus wasn’t that extreme in his punishment of himself. Perhaps had he lived in my neighborhood his self blinding could have been seen as an act of self indulgence, a reward. God knows there were days I would have happily plucked my eyes if only I could figure out a way to drive sightless just to avoid those wobbling sweat pant clad thundering blobs.

It came to pass one week that I didn’t drive, I didn’t go anywhere, I didn’t so much as speak to another human. I was working on an intense remodeling project, one of rather ambitious proportions, and one that had to be finished in a week.

I woke every day early before the family had risen. I went to the project. I labored. I came home late after everyone had fallen asleep and I showered and dropped to the bed.

One week, no road rage. No unkind words. No minor and repeated acts of violence against my fellow man.

At the end of the project, I grabbed a quick shower and scraped the stink from my flesh. I tossed on a beaten pair of khaki shorts and a battered t-shirt and looked around my empty house. The family was away visiting relatives. I wanted mindless diversion and despite the fact that I was attired in nothing that could vaguely resemble appropriate clothing for being in public, I went to Blockbuster in search of visual opium. I wanted nothing more than to nurse at the glass tit and to fall into sweet stupor sprawled in the warm micro fiber embrace of the sectional.

I walked into Blockbuster and god’s love embraced me.

You couldn’t swing a dead cat in that place without hitting a woman milked from the burning coldness of the television, enough sweet supple young firm flesh on display to fill the background of a week of rap videos. A swarm of gooey goodness, a visual plate of warm chocolate chip cookies and milk.

God doesn’t like road rage.

B.F. and god have adopted me as their pet project for those idle times when the fish don’t bite. I rage and I receive the Plague of Beasts. I behave and I receive the Miracle of the Hawtness.

I have sinned lately.

I have sinned a deep and horrible sin of magnificent proportions. I have some thoughts as to what I have done to anger my creator so, but the nature of my transgression is not worthy of discussion here. I am humbled and brought to my knees by the clear and direct signs of his displeasure with me.

I am punished. I am smote. I am cast into a desert, wasteland, a place of emptiness. I drop to my knees and prostrate myself before my master and beg his forgiveness. I have angered and offended him, and he has punished me mightily. “1And it shall come to pass, when all these things are come upon thee, the blessing and the curse, which I have set before thee, and thou shalt call them to mind among all the nations, whither the LORD thy God hath driven thee, 2And shalt return unto the LORD thy God, and shalt obey his voice according to all that I command thee this day, thou and thy children, with all thine heart, and with all thy soul; 3That then the LORD thy God will turn thy captivity, and have compassion upon thee, and will return and gather thee from all the nations, whither the LORD thy God hath scattered thee.” Deuteronomy, Chapter 30. I am cast out of Eden.

I find myself in the Deep South.

The Deep South is a horrible place.

It is hot.

It is humid.

The air is thick and cloying, suffocating in its thick embrace.

It is a place where in the past century it took a deliberate act of will by the President and the force of the Army to simply allow black people to go school with white people.

It is a place where women remain chattel, where you can win one through an act of violence. I grew up in the South. If you saw a woman you liked and she was encumbered with a boyfriend, you simply challenged him to a fight, and the victor took the prize. This is a place that butchers the spoken language, and is mired in love of the past. The war here is still referred to as the War of Northern Aggression. Education is viewed with the same suspicion of witchcraft, and an educated and well spoken man is a social outcast who lives in fear of violence only marginally less than that felt by a witch in 16th century Europe.

In truth, my bias, my bigotry, my loathing of these people is no better than the pervasive racism that infects the whole of my country, but which is openly expressed down here. I am not better than them; in fact I am worse because I should know better.

God hates road rage and I hate the Deep South.

A friend of mine once made the mistake of confessing her fear of spiders to me. I torment her now with promises of binding her to a table and putting spiders on her belly, on her chin, on her nose, in her hair. Yeah, fucking with the hair just is a bit over the line. At least it’s not fucking with the shoes.

The South is my spider and I have confessed all my fears to god.

And yet, even in darkness, I hear the soft promise of Chapter 30, verse 3, “That then the LORD thy God will turn thy captivity, and have compassion upon thee, and will return and gather thee from all the nations, whither the LORD thy God hath scattered thee.”

I hate the Deep South.

But, through the soft focused filter of vodka, I can actually love this place.

High definition television is spawning a new resurgence in the make up industry. 1080 lines of progressively scanned high definition liquid crystal backlit display reveal every imperfection and flaw on those not as perfect as we thought they were bodies and faces of actors. Those pesky little blackheads, those ingrown hairs, those wrinkles and spots you couldn’t see when there where half as many pixels are breeding armies of makeup artists who work in the wet plaster fresco of Dermablend.

Vodka is a soft focus filter that transports me backward in time beyond standard definition television and puts the Deep South into the quaint fuzzy focus of and blessed silence of a Mary Pickford film.

I went out tonight and found vodka to soft focus away the ugliness of this wasteland. I found vodka poured by a goddess.

God’s gifts, even here in the depth of this human cesspool fall like rain, his “…words descend like dew, like showers on new grass, like abundant rain on tender plants.”

I’ve never been able to describe the human form in the written word. Unable to craft an image through writing, I turn not to allusions to the classics, not to literary or artistic references. They wouldn’t be understood by most anyway. No, I turn to that nursing tit, the glass tube that nearly everyone suckles, more familiar to them than the geography of their own country. Television is an almost universal frame of reference.

Home Box Office has a new series, a vampire tale whose hero is a simple waitress. Anna Paquin portrays Sookie, the vampire dating waitress.

Brooke, the Southern Girl, portrayed the role of The Hot Young Chain Restaurant Bartender Who Knows How to Make a Mean Vodka Tonic to Make the Deep South Blur into Pleasant Soft Focus. Brooke is just like Anna Paquin except for those parts that aren’t.

Pale milk white skin. Fine silken yellow hair pulled tight into a flouncing ponytail. Long lean legs encased in blue black denim that clashed with the warm chocolate brown of her eyes. Narrow, yet proud shoulders, pulled back and straight, thrusting the small apples of her breasts up. Black t-shirt stretched tight.

One hand resting on the swollen curves of her six months pregnant belly as she walked bath and forth slinging drinks to the entirely male customer population of the bar.

I’ve never been aroused by pregnant women. I don’t find them unappealing, or unattractive, it’s just not something that juiced my current.

"The vicious man who indulges his vice immediately is nothing but a poor doomed creature. Even debauchees of genius, perfectly equipped to become monsters, are fated for catastrophe if they are content to follow their inclinations."

Bataille is with Skinner and God.

Brooke juiced my current and my immediate inclination was to take her, to shove those blue black jeans that clashed with her chocolate brown eyes down to her ankles, wrap my hands around the globe of her belly and sink my cock deep in her ass right there, standing behind her as she leaned on the bar.

I’ve not wanted a woman so much in as I did her in, oh hell, days?

I looked at her hands when she brought my drink. No rings. No tan lines of rings. No smooth dented flesh where a ring would normally be. Twenty four at most. No plump arms, no wide ass, just a perfect twenty-something body with a baby bump slung out front.

She was hot. She was young. She was firm. But more importantly, she knew how to make a drink. Glass. Three ice cubes. Vodka. More vodka. Pick up the fountain hose and let the thumb hover over the tonic button the merest moment. A little tap and the briefest squirt of bitter tonic. More of a threat of tonic water than an actual adding of tonic water. I may contract malaria tomorrow, but at least tonight I have the soft focus warmth and love induced by a series of her perfect drinks.

Perfect drink. Perfect body. Perfectly pregnant. Enough time to have swollen to a nice round basketball hanging on that thin frame, not enough time to be unfuckable.

I tossed back that first drink in seconds and then pondered how that belly would feel pressed against mine if she rode me.

She walked back and forth and brought me a second one as I wondered if her nipples were still smooth or if they were dry and cracked.

I nursed a third while I imagined how the inner contours of her colon had changed with all that developing flesh pushing her organs around. I wished I knew the tactile contours of her before she had gotten pregnant. I wished I could take her then in the bathroom of the bar, just to feel if she had a different angle of her ass.

My first impulse was to flirt, to seduce, to get that unmarried preggers bartending chick back to my hotel. I wanted to know if the sweet sound of her orgasm was a delicious as the manna of the Maryland crab cake eggs benedict smothered in the perfect hollandaise sauce that god sent me as a token of his enduring love the last time I was in the swampy misery of a Washington, D.C. summer.

Bataille joined the fishing excursion.

I couldn’t act on that impulse – my coworkers arrived for dinner, and I had turn away, one last longing look at the first preggers chick that juiced my current.

I’m here for a week. No impulse acting tonight. Fuck you Battaille.Fuck you right in your damned eye.

But as I drove back to the hotel I found the dreariness of the South obscured by the intrusive image of those apple tits perched on a watermelon belly.

I’m going to indulge myself in a nice long wank. Two or three nice juicy orgasms. Some nice pregger chick themed Onanism.

No, no impulse tonight.

Maybe later this week.