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The fuck baby
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
THE FUCK BABY
Ah, take me back to old Virginny where the grass is green
and the girls are skinny... or something like that. I never
really knew that song, whatever song it is I'm trying to think
of.
So they call me a fuck baby. So what? My black hair--dyed
this way, thank you--cascades over the right side of my face, my
pallid little sun-starved face, just the way I like it, thank you
very much. I like my body, I really do. I'm skinny, but not too
skinny, the right kind of skinny guys like. The kind of skinny
that gets you what you want when you want it. I like boys. I
like lots of them, and I have them, lots of them, when I want
them. What can you say for yourself?
My tits are fine. They're pretty big, but not huge. I
guess they look bigger because I don't wear a bra. Some guy
called them Grateful Dead tits one time, but that's the farthest
thing from what they really are. I'd call them Misfits tits or
Bauhaus tits. Maybe Undead tits. No, that's too gross.
Okay, I've been drinking, so maybe this is not making much
sense, but two or three or seven screwdrivers is not that much.
I mean, I've finished whole bottles and Dad's never noticed.
Yes, I live with my parents. It's a law or something. I'm only
fifteen, but, hey, don't hold that against me. I am a fuck baby
after all. Never forget that. I'm rather proud of it really.
Well, maybe not. I'm not too sure. I'm buzzing pretty hard.
Dad keeps the liquor in the den, in a special little tray
set-up deal he calls his bar, but it's really just a tray with a
bunch of liquor bottles and an empty ice bucket. I plop some ice
out of the fridge into a glass with Hamburgler's face on it and
fill it up with vodka and orange juice. My specialty. Hey, I'm
no bartender, okay? I just like to have a good time.
I am keeping you from something? You look a little bored.
Okay, okay, when did I first become a fuck baby? Less than a
year ago. I was fifteen, just turned (I'll be sixteen next
month, so I'll be expecting a present) and this guy at school
named Nick kept staring at me. But he would never say anything.
So finally I just said, "Hey, Nick, you've been staring at me for
three weeks and I know it so just talk to me and let's be
friends." Actually he turned out to be real cool. He liked my
attitude and my tape collection and he came over to my house and
put his hand up inside me and I thought he was going to do it to
me, but he went home like all he wanted to do was put his hand up
me. He did do it to me eventually, but not until after Alex did,
and Alex didn't even want to. It's a funny story really. Remind
me to tell you sometime.
Ah, another swallow of vodka. Nothing like a mixed drink
for a mixed up girl writing her memoirs. I believe I would not
be so fucked up if I had had siblings, you know, brothers or
sisters. My brothers could beat me up or my sisters and I could
be real girls. As it stands, I can't be anything but everything
at once. Hey, it's damn hard for me to understand too.
See, Mom and Dad have these jobs that keep them away from
home till at least five-thirty, so I can really do whatever I
want till then. And they both crash about eleven, so I can stay
up and drink their liquor kind of like right now. Well, anyway,
one awfully cold September afternoon, I walked home from school,
and this guy Patrick was following me. I didn't really notice
until he followed me up my driveway. He said he'd been watching
me (why me? I thought) and he asked if he could come in. I said
sure and he asked if I had any beer. Patrick was kind of fat but
in a good way, like the kind of guy who drinks too much beer, but
is big enough to handle it, you know? So I figured he drank beer
all the time. We drank some of my dad's Black Label, and he kept
calling me "beautiful." I didn't want to seem like a geek or
anything so I said thank you and said he was beautiful too. It
was probably then he mistook me for a Deadhead. "You've got
beautiful breasts," he said, as his hand caressed my tits under
my t-shirt. I didn't say anything. I just kept on kissing him.
Before I realized it was five-thirty, we were both on the
floor, naked, chafing ourselves silly. The encounter didn't last
too long (hey, boys come pretty easy) and Patrick was gone, the
den straightened up and the dishes done before Mom got home at
five past six. She had stopped to get us some Kentucky Fried
Chicken.
So Patrick was my first and Melissa knew all about it, but I
would think most girls tell their best friends everything.
Wouldn't you? I mean, this kind of business is big news when
you're fifteen. Melissa is actually three months older than me,
so she's already sixteen and can drive, but I don't even have a
learner's permit yet. My dad is sort of flaky about that sort of
thing. He says he doesn't know if I'm mature enough to handle a
car. I think Dad is crazy. I mean, he never went to Vietnam or
anything, but that's not the only thing that can make you crazy
nowadays, you know.
So after Patrick and Nick, things get blurry. A lot of my
life as a fuck baby I spent utterly drunk. I remember mostly
faces, not names, and the boys kept getting progressively older
as I got referred to friends. Now I don't see anything wrong
with this. Melissa was expressing regret or distress or envy or
something, I don't know what. She didn't like what I was doing.
But I did, I mean, that's what counts, right?
Okay, so about Alex. I guess what I did some people might
construe as desperate. I'm still not sure yet. Alex was not a
total stranger, he was in my algebra class, but I really didn't
know him. He was new to our little junior high, and he just
happened to be in the cafeteria line in front of me on that
Friday noon when I guess my hormones got the better of me.
"Would you like to fuck me?" I asked. Straight-forward, I
thought, the best approach.
He looked at me through his thick glasses and pushed back
his oily hair. He said nothing. He must have thought it was a
trick question.
"I want to fuck," I said.
He still looked confounded.
"You. Now. Let's go." And we did. He wasn't that big of
a geek. And he certainly wasn't stupid, if his GPA was any
indication. We were off campus and back at my house in no time.
We were soon too weak to move. The whole house smelt of sex.
After he left, I let loose a flea bomb in every room.
So tonight Melissa and I went to eat at Woolworth's.
Really, the food is good, especially the Woolworth's at the mall.
That's where Melissa and I go most Friday nights. Melissa likes
the old fashioned mall-roving method of picking up guys despite
my attesting to the success of the direct method.
"You know," she said to me, laying down the forkful of fries
she was about to shove into her mouth, "you're nothing more than
a fuck baby."
She had never called me that before. I put down my burger
and wiped the grease from my chin. How dare she call me a fuck
baby? I was not some mushy goop that oozed out of my Woolworth's
burger. That was a fuck baby. Not me. So I got mad at her and
left the mall and walked all the way home. I mean, I'm okay.
Melissa can think what she wants. I'm only human, right?
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