SLUTS

Cubby Hollis made his dick turn purple once in math class after he squeezed it so hard in front

of Jess Flamenco that she almost screamed. We had a substitute teacher and Cubbs was sitting
in the back row of the room where no one could see, so he took his pants off. He'd jerked himself hard to show off, then just started squeezing it, as if it weren't even attached to him, like there was no pain involved, like he was crushing a soda can. Overriding whatever feeling his brain might have had to tell him that he ought to stop, that he was going too far. I felt the empathy pain in
my own brain for his dick, just watching it, and it wasn't even attached to me. I never understood how he was able to work past that feeling.

 

Like gouging someone's eyes out with your thumbs, like you see in movies sometimes. How do you
just go through with that? How does your brain not start to identify with the person's eyes
getting squished in, know they're a set of human eyes just like yours, and feel horrible about the whole thing and stop? That wet, hard-gelatinous feeling of these eyeballs and the change in pressure when your thumbs puncture the outer retinas and it gives way to something jellylike, like pushing into a soft-boiled egg. Not even taking into account the screaming.

 

Conviction. That's the word. I don't have enough of that. I don't have the "conviction" to override

things like that. I think some people are born with more of it. But for me it was something I decided that I needed to practice.

 

It was 3:30 AM outside the middle school and I was standing above a dead crow, cutting its body into pieces with the head of a bent nine-iron I'd found in a dumpster earlier that night. The bird
had probably been dead for quite a while, and the nine-iron's head wasn't even particularly sharp, but the bird's body had decomposed to the point where it was soft enough to push all the way through. Like cutting a bread loaf with a butterknife. I'd cut the rest of the body into two messy, asymmetrical halves and now I was moving on to severing the head. The bugs had already gotten to much of the insides, so it seemed nearly hollow. This was my first test of conviction.

 

I pushed the nine-iron into its neck and felt it start to give. I felt the quease in my chest and

stomach, felt the itch in my eyes and the wince in my mouth and brow. A slow, thick trudge like

pushing through molasses while holding in your puke. Like pushing your thumbs into a set of eyeballs, but much easier, since there's no screaming or fighting back on the other end. A bit of sawing back and forth to chop through the length of it, like cutting a steak. That's the most "erotic" part of the whole thing, I think. When you break through against the pressure, you crest that hill, and there's a sense of release as you slide yourself through past the point of resistance. I cut the crow's head clean off until the nine-iron scraped the asphalt below and felt simultaneously titillated and wanted to cry.

 

A half hour later I was in front of one of the school's outer walls, rubbing my cock through my

pants with my left hand while my right hand scribbled into the wall's surface with a tube of deep
red lipstick, drawing the image of a big pair of succulent lips about the size of my head. I could see enough of what I was doing in the orange glow of an overhead spotlight about twenty feet away. Filled the lips in heavy and dark, smushing the lipstick tube down to a doughy nub as I colored them in to my satisfaction. My left hand now all the way down my pants and my cock at full length, I wrote in feral capital letters above the lips:
 

 

                                              JESS FLAMENCO IS A SLUT

                                                     AND I FUCKED HER   
   

 

I dropped the tube of lipstick and pressed my mouth into the wall, sucking and licking on my

freshly painted lips as I jerked myself off furiously. My pants at my ankles, in seconds I was

spouting off cum into the wall in front of me, spattering gobs of it as it oozed down.

 

My face smeared with red, I grabbed the lipstick, pulled my pants back up, and slipped away at

a brisk walk. I left the words, drawing, and cum on the wall. No one would remember who Jess

Flamenco is, anyway. She hasn't gone to this school in over 17 years.