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Loneliness
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.
Loneliness.
It's always there, like a low-grade fever or some emotional parasite.
Sharing my mind and spirit, taking its tithe from my happiness and energy.
Sometimes sampling a corner and then pissing on the rest. That old dog in
the manger, grizzled but still lightning fast with a bite.
The strangest things can fire up the beast. Anger, frustration, fear--sure.
To b expected. But too much of a good thing? Too many people accepting me,
too many warm rooms full of laughter, too many orgasms shooting by under
my hands...?
I think it's the Black Dog that drives me from face to face, from soul to
soul, kicking me on down the road when I show signs of having found a home.
It makes me prowl and swing my head low, looking in slight desperation for
some THING that I cannot name. Or put a face or a body or a sensation to.
Circles go round and so do flawed intentions. I try not to treat people like
prey, like meat, like some new drug or magic spell that will get me off the
treadmill. But it comes through. It hurts me to hurt somebody. It really
does--but in my mind I'm not drawing away, I'm being PULLED away, my love
leaning into the wind, nightmarishly, as I recede, she growing smaller and
smaller until only the shattered eyes remain. And then nothing but the wind.
And the black dog smiles and says ``Next?''
And with a sigh and a jangle of chains, down the high road to hell we tread.
There are one or two people for whom I am so obviously fitted that the
Black Dog has to just sit outside and gnaw his bony flank. Yet today, one
of these fitments seems to show those beginning little cracks, little light
leaks here and there. (It never was perfect, but I hoped it was strong.)
And out in the alley Mr. Dog looks up and smiles, and begins padding toward
the light, lashing his cruddy tail like a cat and panting his long purple-
black tongue in and out, in and out...
And I'm pressing myself into this thing, this bonding, this tenuous union,
this home-made little world all strung together with tag-ends and spare
parts from other lives, I'm throwing my arms around it and trying to hold it
in one piece by sheer will-power alone...
And El Doggo is in the door and sauntering insolently toward me, his cracked
talons clicking and raking on the floor...
And my LOVE is breaking up, and my LIFE is losing power, and my SPECIAL little
world built for two is turning into greyish smoke and dried river weeds...
And His Canine Majesty has the sleeve of my greatcoat in his slobbery, reeking
chaw...
It's getting dark, and I can't remember why I was here or what could possibly
seem so important in a world of matt grey remains...
And I'm on the highway again, not so much following the dog as the road. And
I turn back for one last look, and the last pinpoint of rosy lovelight is just
winking out...
And I glare down at Black Dog and snarl ``All right, where do we go NOW?''
And Brother Dog say ``It's not important where you go. It's important where
you leave from.''
Don't let this happen...
From [email protected] Wed Nov 18 09:40:01 1992
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Date: Wed, 18 Nov 92 09:40 PST
From: [email protected] (Kenneth P. Greene)
To: [email protected]
Subject: lonli
Status: R
Knives _between_ the fingers is not the same condition as knives _through_
the fingers. She did, however, bleed a little from her own inability to
keep still. Sure-fire cure for the fidgets among consenting adults; you
wiggle, you bleed.
``I am not in a good mood today'' I said, drawing a thin white line down her
firm thigh with the point of a 16th Century gunner's stilletto.
She didn't reply. Having an Eskimo ulu tied under your chin with its long
curved edge resting on your throat will do that.
``Loneliness'' I continued. I pulled one of her dark pink nipple-tips out into
a tight stretch and bounced the triangular stilletto blade on it like a
musical instrument. I didn't get any music, but I elicited a noise.
``It's always there, like a low-grade fever. Some emotional parasite.
Sharing my mind and spirit, taking its tithe from my happiness and energy.
Sometimes sampling a corner and then pissing on the rest. That old dog in
the manger, grizzled but still lightning fast with a bite.
``The strangest things can fire up the beast. Anger, frustration, fear--sure.
To be expected. But too much of a good thing? Too many people accepting me,
too many warm rooms full of laughter, too many orgasms shooting by under
my hands...?
``I think it's the Black Dog that drives me from face to face, from soul to
soul, kicking me on down the road when I show signs of having found a home.
It makes me prowl and swing my head low, looking in slight desperation for
some THING that I cannot name. Or put a face or a body or a sensation to."
I leaned down and looked into her eyes at close range. They were grey-blue
and blank, like unpolished gemstones.
``Circles go round and so do flawed intentions. I try not to treat people like
prey, like meat, like some new drug or magic spell that will get me off the
treadmill. But it comes through. It hurts me to hurt somebody. It really
does--but in my mind I'm not drawing away, I'm being PULLED away, my love
leaning into the wind, nightmarishly, as I recede, she growing smaller and
smaller until only the shattered eyes remain. And then nothing but the wind.
``And the black dog smiles and says ``Next?''
``And with a sigh and a jangle of chains, down the high road to hell we tread.
``There are one or two people for whom I am so obviously fitted that the
Black Dog has to just sit outside and gnaw his bony flank. Yet today, one
of these fitments seems to show those beginning little cracks, little light
leaks here and there. (It never was perfect, but I hoped it was strong.)
``And out in the alley Mr. Dog looks up and smiles, and begins padding toward
the light, lashing his matted tail like a cat and panting his long purple-
black tongue in and out, in and out...
``And I'm pressing myself into this thing, this bonding, this tenuous union,
this home-made little world all strung together with tag-ends and spare
parts from other lives, I'm throwing my arms around it and trying to hold it
in one piece by sheer will-power alone...
``And El Doggo is in the door and sauntering insolently toward me, his cracked
talons clicking and raking on the floor...
``And my LOVE is breaking up, and my LIFE is losing power, and my SPECIAL little
world built for two is turning into greyish smoke and dried river weeds...
``And His Canine Majesty has the sleeve of my greatcoat in his slobbery, reeking
chaw...
``It's getting dark, and I can't remember why I was here or what could possibly
seem so important in a world of matt grey remains...
``And I'm on the highway again, not so much following the dog as the road. And
I turn back for one last look, and the last pinpoint of rosy lovelight is just
winking out...
``And I glare down at Black Dog and snarl ``All right, where do we go NOW?''
``And Brother Dog he say ``It's not important where you go. It's important where
you leave from.''
``Don't let this happen...'' I pleaded. I pulled her head forward into the ulu
blade, but at the last second, I turned the blade and slashed my own forearm,
not deep but long and straight and clean. I used MY blood to paint HER face
and neck and breasts.
She finally screamed.
averti. November 1992.
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