Also AIDS doesn't affect your brain you retard. Especially not to a degree that it would alter visual processing. That's what you get for trying to be verbose while 'dumpstering' someone with your overused gimmick.
It's the Rove strategy, attack them where you're weak, then they look like copycats if they throw it back at you.
Originally Posted by Richter
I'm finding it hard to believe that you thought Richter was saying AIDS affects your brain. If you look at the sentence in question, he clearly mentions diseases being contracted FROM the 'gay aids sex'. Said diseases causing the rotting of your occipital lobes. Though I am not a medical man, far from it in fact, I would think that syphilis would effect your brain if given a long enough time.
There is actually an AIDS-related dementia complex that occurs late into the disease, but it's a phenomenon of your own immune system activating macrophages, directly caused by HIV and not the indirect infections that result from the low helper T-cell count (your occipital lobe and vision is unaffected). Basically, it's the last thing you worry about in the syndrome. Syphilis in the tertiary stage causes neurosyphilis, which is many factors worse than the above but it almost never gets to that point these days.
Why I'm explaining this, I don't know. But maybe it's because these gay jokes were never funny and they got old quick. Stop hating, you do know that heterosexuals get the HIV virus more than homosexuals right, and mostly responsible for perpetuating the current epidemic?
E: this is directed to Richter btw. All forum rep theory aside, avoiding lame personal attacks tends to help your actual rep over the make-believe virtual rep.
thanks for the plusrep yougay
Congratulations on descending to the level of FireZeMissiles, IntarKLL and Riverini
Your posting has been Adjusted
Shut the fuck up Richter Belmont.
"Shitposter" is a single word, you fucking plebe.
Literally all I care about in EVE is rep.
literally the best part of my app was how i could get vouches in 5 minutes and db_t hasn't got one in all his time playing eve
Woah, deja vu.
Seven rented nights in this coffin, Sandii. New Rose Hotel. How I want you now. Sometimes I hit you. Replay it so slow and sweet and mean, I can almost feel it. Sometimes I take your little automatic out of my bag,run my thumb down smooth, cheap chrome. Chinese .22, its bore no wider thanthe dilated pupils of your vanished eyes. Fox is dead now, Sandii.
Fox told me to forget you.
I remember Fox leaning against the padded bar in the dark lounge ofsome Singapore hotel, Bencoolen Street, his hands describing differentspheres of influence, internal rivalries, the arc of a particular career, apoint of weakness he had discovered in the armor of some think tank. Fox was point man in the skull wars, a middleman for corporate crossovers. He was a soldier in the secret skirmishes of the zaibatsus, the multinationalcorporations that control entire economies. I see Fox grinning, talking fast, dismissing my ventures into intercorporate espionage with a shake of his head. The Edge, he said, have to find that Edge. He made you bear the capital E. The Edge was Fox's grail,that essential fraction of sheer human talent, nontransferable, locked in the skulls of the world's hottest research scientists.
You can't put Edge down on paper, Fox said, can't punch Edge into adiskette. The money was in corporate defectors. Fox was smooth, the severityof his dark French suits offset by a boyish forelock that wouldn't stay inplace. I never liked the way the effect was ruined when he stepped back fromthe bar, his left shoulder skewed at an angle no Paris tailor could conceal.Someone had run him over with a taxi in Berne, and nobody quite knew how toput him together again. I guess I went with him because he said he was after that Edge. Andsomewhere out there, on our way to find the Edge, I found you, Sandii. TheNew Rose Hotel is a coffin rack on the ragged fringes of NaritaInternational. Plastic capsules a meter high and three long, stacked likesurplus Godzilla teeth in a concrete lot off the main road to the airport.Each capsule has a television mounted flush with the ceiling. I spend wholedays watching Japanese game shows and old movies. Sometimes I have your gunin my hand.
I guess I went with him because he said he was after that Edge. Andsomewhere out there, on our way to find the Edge, I found you, Sandii. TheNew Rose Hotel is a coffin rack on the ragged fringes of Narita International. Plastic capsules a meter high and three long, stacked like surplus Godzilla teeth in a concrete lot off the main road to the airport.Each capsule has a television mounted flush with the ceiling. I spend wholedays watching Japanese game shows and old movies. Sometimes I have your gunin my hand. Sometimes I can hear the jets, laced into holding patterns over
Narita. I close my eyes and imagine the sharp, white contrails fading,losing definition.
You walked into a bar in Yokohama, the first time I saw you.Eurasian, half gaijin, long-hipped and fluid in a Chinese knock-off of someTokyo designer's original. Dark European eyes, Asian cheekbones. I rememberyou dumping your purse out on the bed, later, in some hotel room, pawingthrough your makeup. A crumpled wad of new yen, dilapidated address bookheld together with rubber bands, a Mitsubishi bank chip, Japanese passportwith a gold chrysanthemum stamped on the cover, and the Chinese .22. Youtold me your story. Your father had been an executive in Tokyo, but now hewas disgraced, disowned, cast down by Hosaka, the biggest zaibatsu of all.That night your mother was Dutch, and I listened as you spun out thosesummers in Amsterdam for me, the pigeons in Dam Square like a soft, browncarpet. I never asked what your father might have done to earn his disgrace.I watched you dress; watched the swing of your dark, straight hair, how itcut the air. Now Hosaka hunts me.
The coffins of New Rose are racked in recycled scaffolding, steelpipes under bright enamel. Paint flakes away when I climb the ladder, fallswith each step as I follow the catwalk. My left hand counts off the coffinhatches, their multilingual decals warning of fines levied for the loss of akey. I look up as the jets rise out of Narita, passage home, distant now asany moon. Fox was quick to see how we could use you, but not sharp enough tocredit you with ambition. But then he never lay all night with you on thebeach at Kamakura, never listened to your nightmares, never heard an entireimagined childhood shift under those stars, shift and roll over, yourchild's mouth opening to reveal some fresh past, and always the one, youswore, that was really and finally the truth. I didn't care, holding yourhips while the sand cooled against your skin. Once you left me, ran back tothat beach saying you'd forgotten our key. I found it in the door and wentafter you, to find you ankle-deep in surf, your smooth back rigid,trembling; your eyes far away. You --couldn't talk. Shivering. Gone. Shakingfor different futures and better pasts. Sandii, you left me here.
You left me all your things. This gun. Your makeup, all the shadowsand blushes capped in plastic. Your Cray microcomputer, a gift from Fox,with a shopping list you entered. Sometimes I play that back, watching eachitem cross the little silver screen.
A freezer. A fermenter. An incubator. An electrophoresis system withintegrated agarose cell and transilluminator. A tissue embedder. Ahigh-performance liquid chromatograph. A flow cytometer. Aspectrophotometer. Four gross of borosilicate scintillation vials. Amicrocentrifuge. And one DNA synthesizer, with in-built computer. Plussoftware.
Expensive, Sandii, but then Hosaka was footing our bills. Later youmade them pay even more, but you were already gone.
Hiroshi drew up that list for you. In bed, probably. Hiroshi Yomiuri. Maas Biolabs GmbH had him. Hosaka wanted him. He was hot. Edge and lots of it. Fox followed genetic engineers theway a fan follows players in a favorite game. Fox wanted Hiroshi so bad he could taste it.
He'd sent me up to Frankfurt three times before you turned up, justto have a look-see at Hiroshi. Not to make a pass or even to give him a winkand a nod. Just to watch.
Hiroshi showed all the signs of having settled in. He'd found aGerman girl with a taste for conservative loden and riding boots polishedthe shade of a fresh chestnut. He'd bought a renovated town house on justthe right square. He'd taken up fencing and given up kendo.
And everywhere the Maas security teams, smooth and heavy, a rich,clear syrup of surveillance. I came back and told Fox we'd never touch him. You touched him for us, Sandii. You touched him just right.
Our Hosaka contacts were like specialized cells protecting theparent organism. We were mutagens, Fox and I, dubious agents adrift on thedark side of the intercorporate sea.
When we had you in place in Vienna, we offered them Hiroshi. Theydidn't even blink. Dead calm in an LA hotel room. They said they had tothink about it. Fox spoke the name of Hosaka's primary competitor in the gene game,let it fall out naked, broke the protocol forbidding the use of propernames.
They had to think about it, they said.
Fox gave them three days.
I took you to Barcelona a week before I took you to Vienna. Iremember you with your hair tucked back into a gray beret, your high Mongolcheekbones reflected in the windows of ancient shops. Strolling down theRamblas to the Phoenician harbor, past the glass-roofed Mercado sellingoranges out of Africa. The old Ritz, warm in our room, dark, with all thesoft weight of Europe pulled over us like a quilt. I could enter you in yoursleep. You were always ready. Seeing your lips in a soft, round 0 ofsurprise, your face about to sink into the thick, white pillow -- archaiclinen of the Ritz. Inside you I imagined all the neon, the crowds surgingaround Shinjuku Station, wired electric night. You moved that way, rhythm ofa new age, dreamy and far from any nation's soil.
When we flew to Vienna, I installed you in Hiroshi's wife's favoritehotel. Quiet, solid, the lobby tiled like a marble chessboard, with brasselevators smelling of lemon oil and small cigars. It was easy to imagine herthere, the highlights on her riding boots reflected in polished marble, butwe knew she wouldn't be coming. along, not this trip.
She was off to some Rhinetand spa, and Hiroshi was in Vienna for aconference. When Maas security flowed in to scan the hotel, you were out ofsight. Hiroshi arrived an hour later, alone.
Imagine an alien, Fox once said, who's come here to identify theplanet's dominant form of intelligence. The alien has a look, then chooses.What do you think he picks? I probably shrugged. The zaibatsus, Fox said,the multinationals. The blood of a zaibatsu is information, not people. Thestructure is independent of the individual lives that comprise it.Corporation as life form. Not the Edge lecture again, I said.
Maas isn't like that, he said, ignoring me. Maas was small, fast, ruthless. An atavism. Maas was all Edge.
I remember Fox talking about the nature of Hiroshi's Edge.Radioactive nucleases, monoclonal antibodies, something to do with thelinkage of proteins, nucleotides ... Hot, Fox called them, hot proteins.High-speed links. He said Hiroshi was a freak, the kind who shattersparadigms, inverts a whole field of science, brings on the violent revisionof an entire body of knowledge. Basic patents, he said, his throat tightwith the sheer wealth of it, with the high, thin smell of tax-free millionsthat clung to those two words. Hosaka wanted Hiroshi, but his Edge wasradical enough to worry them. They wanted him to work in isolation. I wentto Marrakech, to the old city, the Medina. I found a heroin lab that hadbeen converted to the extraction of pheromones. I bought it, with Hosaka'smoney.
I walked the marketplace at Djemaa-el-Fna with a sweating Portuguesebusinessman, discussing fluorescent lighting and the installation ofventilated specimen cages. Beyond the city walls, the high Atlas.Djemaa-el-Fna was thick with jugglers, dancers, storytellers, small boysturning lathes with their feet, legless beggars with wooden bowls underanimated holograms advertising French software.
We strolled past bales of raw wool and plastic tubs of Chinesemicrochips. I hinted that my employers planned to manufacture syntheticbeta-endorphin. Always try to give them something they understand.
Sandii, I remember you in Harajuka, sometimes. Close my eyes in thiscoffin and I can see you there -- all the glitter, crystal maze of theboutiques, the smell of new clothes. I see your cheekbones ride past chromeracks of Paris leathers. Sometimes I hold your hand.
We thought we'd found you, Sandii, but really you'd found us. Now Iknow you were looking for us, or for someone like us. Fox was delighted,grinning over our find: such a pretty new tool, bright as any scalpel. Justthe thing to help us sever a stubborn Edge, like Hiroshi's, from the jealousparent-body of Maas Biolabs. You must have been searching a long time,looking for a way out, all those nights down Shinjuku. Nights you carefullycut from the scattered deck of your past.
My own past had gone down years before, lost with all hands, notrace. I understood Fox's late-night habit of emptying his wallet, shufflingthrough his identification. He'd lay the pieces out in different patterns,rearrange them, wait for a picture to form. I knew what he was looking for.You did the same thing with your childhoods. In New Rose, tonight, I choosefrom your deck of pasts.
I choose the original version, the famous Yokohama hotelroom text,recited to me that first night in bed. I choose the disgraced father, Hosakaexecutive. Hosaka. How perfect. And the Dutch mother, the summers inAmsterdam, the soft blanket of pigeons in the Dam Square afternoon.
I came in out of the heat of Marrakech into Hilton air conditioning.Wet shirt clinging cold to the small of my back while I read the messageyou'd relayed through Fox. You were in all the way; Hiroshi would leave hiswife. It wasn't difficult for you to communicate with us, even through theclear, tight film of Maas security; you'd shown Hiroshi the perfect littleplace for coffee and kipferl. Your favorite waiter was white-haired, kindly,walked with a limp, and worked for us. You left your messages under thelinen napkin.
All day today I watched a small helicopter cut a tight grid abovethis country of mine, the land of my exile, the New Rose Hotel. Watched frommy hatch as its patient shadow crossed the grease-stained concrete. Close.Very close.
I left Marrakech for Berlin. I met with a Welshman in a bar andbegan to arrange for Hiroshi's disappearance. It would be a complicatedbusiness, intricate as the brass gears and sliding mirrors of Victorianstage magic, but the desired effect was simple enough. Hiroshi would stepbehind a hydrogen-cell Mercedes and vanish. The dozen Maas agents whofollowed him constantly would swarm around the van like ants; the Maassecurity apparatus would harden around his point of departure like epoxy.
They know how to do business promptly in Berlin. I wits even able toarrange a last night with you. I kept it secret from Fox; he might not haveapproved. Now I've forgotten the town's name. I knew it for an hour on theautobahn, under a gray Rhenish sky, and forgot it in your arms.
The rain began, sometime toward morning. Our room had a singlewindow, high and narrow, where I stood and watched the rain fur the riverwith silver needles. Sound of your breathing. The river flowed beneath low,stone arches. The street was empty. Europe was a dead museum.
I'd already booked your flight to Marrakech, out of Orly, under yournewest name. You'd be on your way when I pulled the final string and droppedHiroshi out of sight.
You'd left your purse on the dark old bureau. While you slept I wentthrough your things, removed anything that might clash with the new coverI'd bought for you in Berlin. I took the Chinese .22, your microcomputer,and your bank chip. I took a new passport, Dutch, from my bag, a Swiss bankchip in the same name, and tucked them into your purse.
My hand brushed something flat, I drew it out, held the thing, adiskette. No labels.
It lay there in the palm of my hand, all that death. Latent, coded,waiting. I stood there and watched you breathe, watched your breasts rise andfall. Saw your lips slightly parted, and in the jut and fullness of yourlower lip, the faintest suggestion of bruising.
I put the diskette back into your purse. When I lay down beside you,you rolled against me, waking, on your breath all the electric night of anew Asia, the future rising in you like a bright fluid, washing me ofeverything but the moment. That was your magic, that you lived outside ofhistory, all now.
And you knew how to take me there. For the last time, you took me. While I was shaving, I heard you empty your makeup into my bag. I'mDutch now, you said, I'll want a new look.
Dr Hiroshi Yomiuri went missing in Vienna, in a quiet street offSingerstrasse, two blocks from his wife's favorite hotel. On a clearafternoon in October, in the presence of a dozen expert witnesses, DrYomiuri vanished.
He stepped through a looking glass. Somewhere, offstage, the oiledplay of Victorian clockwork. I sat in a hotel room in Geneva and took theWelshman's call. It was done, Hiroshi down my rabbit hole and headed forMarrakech. I poured myself a drink and thought about your legs. Fox and I met in Narita a day later, in a sushi bar in the. JALterminal. He'd just stepped off an Air Maroc jet, exhausted and triumphant. Loves it there, he said, meaning Hiroshi. Loves her, he said,meaning you.
I smiled. You'd promised to meet me in Shinjuku in a month. Your cheap little gun in the New Rose Hotel. Ale chrome is startingto peel. The machining is clumsy, blurry Chinese stamped into rough steel.The grips are red plastic, molded with a dragon on either side. Like achild's toy.
Fox ate sushi in the JAL terminal, high on what we'd done. Theshoulder had been giving him trouble, but he said he didn't care. Money nowfor better doctors. Money now for everything. Somehow it didn't seem veryimportant to me, the money we'd gotten from Hosaka. Not that I doubted ournew wealth, but that last night with you had left me convinced that it allcame to us naturally, in the new order of things, as a function of who andwhat we were.
Poor Fox. With his blue oxford shirts crisper than ever, his Parissuits darker and richer. Sitting there in JAL, dabbing sushi into a littlerectangular tray of green horseradish, he had less than a week to live. Darknow, and the coffin racks of New Rose are lit all night by floodlights, highon painted metal masts. Nothing here seems to serve its original purpose.Everything is surplus, recycled, even the coffins. Forty years ago theseplastic capsules were stacked in Tokyo or Yokohama, a modern convenience fortraveling businessmen. Maybe your father slept in one. When the scaffoldingwas new, it rose around the shell of some mirrored tower on the Ginza,swarmed over by crews of builders.
I spread crab-flavored krill paste on orange rice crackers. I canhear the planes. Those last few days in Tokyo, Fox and I had adjoiningsuites on the fifty-third floor of the Hyatt. No contact with Hosaka. Theypaid us, then erased us from official corporate memory. But Fox couldn't let go. Hiroshi was his baby, his pet project. He'd
developed a proprietary, almost fatherly, interest in Hiroshi. He loved himfor his Edge. So Fox had me keep in touch with my Portuguese businessman inthe Medina, who was willing to keep a very partial eye on Hiroshi's lab forus.
When he phoned, he'd phone from a stall in Djemaa-el-Fna, with abackground of wailing vendors and Atlas panpipes. Someone was movingsecurity into Marrakech, he told us. Fox nodded. Hosaka. After less than adozen calls, I saw the change in Fox, a tension, a look of abstraction. I'dfind him at the window, staring down fifty-three floors into the Imperialgardens, lost in something he wouldn't talk about. Ask him for a moredetailed description, he, said, after one particular call. He thought a manour contact had seen entering Hiroshi's lab might be Moenner, Hosaka'sleading gene man.
That was Moenner, he said, after the next call. Another call and hethought he'd identified Chedanne, who headed Hosaka's protein team. Neitherhad been seen outside the corporate arcology in over two years. By then itwas obvious that Hosaka's leading researchers were pooling quietly in theMedina, the black executive Lears whispering into the Marrakech airport oncarbon-fiber wings. Fox shook his head. He was a professional, a specialist,and he saw the sudden accumulation of all that prime Hosaka Edge in theMedina as a drastic failure in the zaibatsu's tradecraft.
Christ, he said, pouring himself a Black Label, they've got theirwhole bio section in there right now. One bomb. He shook his head. Onegrenade in the right place at the right time ... I reminded him of thesaturation techniques Hosaka security was obviously employing. Hosaka hadlines to the heart of the Diet, and their massive infiltration of agentsinto Marrakech could only be taking place with the knowledge and cooperationof the Moroccan government. Hang it up. I said. It's over. You've sold them Hiroshi. Now forgethim.
I know what it is, he said. I know. I saw it once before. He said that there was a certain wild factor in lab work. The edgeof Edge, he called it. When a researcher develops a breakthrough, otherssometimes find it impossible to duplicate the first researcher's results.This was even more likely with Hiroshi, whose work went against theconceptual grain of his field. The answer, often, was to fly thebreakthrough boy from lab to corporate lab for a ritual laying on of hands.A few pointless adjustments in the equipment, and the process would work.Crazy thing, he said, nobody knows why it works that way, but it does. Hegrinned.
But they're taking a chance, he said. Bastards told us they wantedto isolate Hiroshi, keep him away from their central research thrust. Balls.Bet your ass there's some kind of power struggle going on in Hosakaresearch. Somebody big's flying his favorites in and rubbing them all overHiroshi for luck. When Hiroshi shoots the legs out from under geneticengineering, the Medina crowd's going to be ready.
He drank his scotch and shrugged. Go to bed, he said. You're right, it's over. I did go to bed, but the phone woke me. Marrakech again, the whitestatic of a satellite link, a rush of frightened Portuguese. Hosaka didn't freeze our credit, they caused it to evaporate. Fairygold. One minute we were millionaires in the world's hardest currency, andthe next we were paupers. I woke Fox.
Sandii, he said. She sold out. Maas security turned her in Vienna.Sweet Jesus. I watched him slit his battered suitcase apart with a Swiss Armyknife. He had three gold bars glued in there with contact cement. Softplates, each one proofed and stamped by the treasury of some extinct Africangovernment. I should've seen it, he said, his voice flat.
I said no. I think I said your name. Forget her, he said. Hosakawants us dead. They'll assume we crossed them. Get on the phone and checkour credit. Our credit was gone. They denied that either of us had ever had anaccount. Haul ass, Fox said. We ran. Out a service door, into Tokyo traffic, and down intoShinjuku. That was when I understood for the first time the real extent ofHosaka's reach. Every door was closed. People we'd done business with for two years
saw us coming, and I'd see steel shutters slam behind their eyes. We'd getout before they had a chance to reach for the phone. The surface tension ofthe underworld had been tripled, and everywhere we'd meet that same tautmembrane and be thrown back. No chance to sink, to get out of sight.
Hosaka let us run for most of that first day. Then they sent someoneto break Fox's back a second time. I didn't see them do it, but I saw himfall. We were in a Ginza department store an hour before closing, and I sawhis arc off that polished mezzanine, down into all the wares of the newAsia. They missed me somehow, and I just kept running. Fox took the goldwith him, but I had a hundred new yen in my pocket. I ran. All the way tothe New Rose Hotel.
Now it's time. Come with me, Sandii. Hear the neon humming on the road to NaritaInternational. A few late moths trace stopmotion circles around thefloodlights that shine on New Rose. And the funny thing, Sandii, is howsometimes you just don't seem real to me. Fox once said you were ectoplasm,a ghost called up by the extremes of economics. Ghost of the new century,congealing on a thousand beds in the world's Hyatts, the world's Hiltons.
Now I've got your gun in my hand, jacket pocket, and my hand seemsso far away. Disconnected. I remember my Portuguese business friendforgetting his English, trying to get it across in four languages I barelyunderstood, and I thought he was telling me that the Medina was burning. Notthe Medina. The brains of Hosaka's best research people. Plague, he waswhispering, my businessman, plague and fever and death. Smart Fox, he put ittogether on the run. I didn't even have to mention finding the diskette inyour bag in Germany.
Someone had reprogrammed the DNA synthesizer, he said. The thing wasthere for the overnight construction of just the right macromolecule. Withits in-built computer and its custom software. Expensive, Sandii. But not asexpensive as you turned out to be for Hosaka. I hope you got a good price from Maas. So Moenner died, along with other Hosaka researchers. Including
Hiroshi. Chedanne suffered permanent brain damage. Hiroshi hadn't worried about contamination. The proteins he punchedfor were harmless. So the synthesizer hummed to itself all night longbuilding a virus to the specifications of Maas Biolabs GmbH. Maas. Small,fast, ruthless' -- All Edge.
The airport road is a long, straight shot. Keep to the shadows. And I was shouting at that Portuguese voice, I made him tell me whathappened to the girl, to Hiroshi's woman. Vanished, he said. The whir ofVictorian clockwork. So Fox had to fall, fall with his three pathetic plates of gold, andsnap his spine for the last time. On the floor of a Ginza department store,every shopper staring in the instant before they screamed. I just can't hateyou, baby.
And Hosaka's helicopter is back, no lights at all, hunting oninfrared, feeling for body heat. A muffled whine as it turns, a kilometeraway, swinging back toward us, toward New Rose. Too fast a shadow, againstthe glow of Narita. It's all right, baby. Only please come here. Hold my hand.
Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.” I chuckle.
The light streamed in through the leaded glass of her bedroom window. Forming perfect rainbows in the air and on the ivory skin of her body as we lie naked — limbs entwined. The air was thick with our musk: sex, sweat, and crumpled linen. Wisps of deep grey and aubergine smoke spilled from her lips. Generally I don’t allow smoking indoors, our post-coital darts are the only exception.
“Promise you won’t think I’m weird?”
She giggled and blew smoke at me. She pursed her kiss-raw lips and mouthed a barely audible ‘Fuck You!’ I released a loud deep belly laugh. She lunged at me. Tossing her nude body atop of mine taking my face in her hands.
“Stop it!” she urged, still giggling. “I’m being serious.”
“Okay. Me too.” I wiped off my shit-eating grin and extinguished my smoke. She looks grim and nervous.
“So remember when you said if there was anything I wanted to try, y’know in the bedroom, I should let you know.”
“Of course.” My interest piqued, “So what’s up?”
“Well, there’s something I’d like to try.”
She blushes, turns crimson red.
“And?” I query.
“I want you to be more dominant.”
“Rough stuff. Like, really really rough.”
“We’ve tried spanking, hair-pulling, light bondage…”
“Rougher,” she giggles nervously.
“How much rougher can I go?”
“As rough as you want.”
“Well fuck, maybe I don’t like all that macho male dominant sex spiced with violence bullshit.” I suddenly realize we’re still very naked.
“Well,” she pauses, “maybe I do.”
I take a long deep breath and stare longingly at her perfectly formed countenance — it’s hard to imagine her battered, bruised, and sexy. But, relationships are about compromise. I nod.
“Let’s do it,” I state.
She whispers: “I want you to rape me please.”
It all takes a second to sink in, “rape me” she says. Images of violence, brutality, masked men and scarred women flash through my mind’s eye. I begin to feel nauseous, but also erotically charged, which only made feel disgusted with myself increasing the original nauseous feeling.
“So how do we go about this?” I queried, “are there going to be safe words? rules? limits?”
“Nope,” she stated dryly. “No limits, no safe words, and definitely no rules.”
“If I say ‘stop’ don’t. If I say ‘no’ keep going. And, when I struggle just go harder.”
“Don’t you mean ‘if’?”
“No. It’ll be when. Don’t worry about being proper. Just throw me up against the wall and fuck me till I’m raw.”
I laugh nervously, aroused, I love it when she talks dirty.
“One more thing,” she requests, “surprise me. I don’t want to know when it’ll happen.”
I wrestle with the thought alone: rape. How could it be consensual? How do I make such a violent invasive act romantic?
I had, previously, dated a woman who was a victim of date-rape. She struggled with her sexuality. Swinging between voracious dominant aggression and sad submissive resigned sex. I began to worry our little adventure might frighten, corrupt, or color my current love.
“I want to make sure there isn’t some deeper psychological issue at play here. Maybe a past trauma?”
“My God!” she stamped her feet, “it’s a fucking fantasy. Please please please don’t suck all the fun out of this. And, just leave the psycho-babble and amateur analyzing to your shrink.”
“I guess I’m just having a hard time finding the ‘fun’ in it.”
She placed her hand on mind smiling coyly. She felt warm.
“Trust me,” she whisper with an air of darkness, “it’ll be fun.”
I spend the next week researching and desensitizing myself to the entire process. I rented Sam Peckinpah films, Spaghetti Westerns, and Law and Order: SVU episodes. I mined them for the do’s and don’ts of rape.
-Be an egocentric lover fucker
-Prevent/ ignore/ enjoy the screaming
-Worry/ be afraid
-Let her rattle you
-Give her an opportunity to fight back
-Listen if she says “No”
-Hurt her (much)
-Stop, don’t ever stop.
The more I planned the more perverse I felt. Less like a hunter stalking his prey and more like some kind of psycho-sexual newbie whose exploits would undoubtably become fodder for the newest episode of Criminal Minds, or America’s Most Wanted. I was torn between being a creep, and being a dutiful lover; psychotic versus lovable, appalled versus aroused.
I began to assemble items for the event:
Nylon rope (binds without the rough prickles and rope burn)
A gag (don’t need to explain our adventures in consensual rape to the neighbors or the police)
Whiskey (for courage)
Wine (for consolation)
I also created a costume of sorts. It created a bit of a mental disconnect which was psychologically useful and made me feel like a super villain — which was awesome. I read once that the number one female fantasy is to be ravaged by a stranger. Also, commonly in women’s erotic dreams the man is faceless, formless, or unrecognizable. So, I made sure I packed an extra bandana to cover my face like Jesse James about to descend upon a hapless stage-coach.
The cashier at my local big box store jokes:
“Bandanas must be coming back in!”
“Maybe” I responded. Resisting the urge to answer “No, I’m going to rape my girlfriend.”
“Oh, and a rope too… Don’t go robbing any banks!”
“No danger of that!” I laughed, “but if any one asks I was never here.”
At home, I packed the costume and accessories into a duffel bag and threw it under our bed waiting for the right moment.
The next Friday I received a text around 4pm:
“OMG I fucking hate wrk.
I srsly need 2 blow off stm
2nite. On way. xoxo.”
It was on. I pulled out the duffel bag and pulled on my costume. I stood at the window
waiting for her streetcar to arrive. Seconds seemed to drag as I waited for my conquest to arrive. When she finally stepped onto the asphalt my entire world melted away same for her. Nothing else mattered, the anxieties from the days and weeks before fell away. She was mine and nothing could stop me.
I stood behind the door as it slowly creaked open, gag in hand. She called out for me. I pushed her against the wall pressing the entire weight of my body against hers.
“Shut up and you won’t get hurt” I whispered menacingly in her ear as I gently but firmly tied the bandana sandwiched between her teeth.
I grabbed her shoulders spinning her so we were face to face. She winked. I tried not to laugh. She struggled. I tied her wrists and buried my face in the crook of her neck nibbling, kissing, biting vigorously. I dispensed with her shirt, pulling it open, scattering pearl buttons allover the hardwood. She bleated and struggled as a lamb to slaughter. Nails firmly embedded in her skin I worked my way forcefully up the soft flesh of her thighs.
She pulled away. I pulled her closer.
My hands explored the curves of her heart-shaped buttocks up to the waistband of her panties. I pulled until I heard tearing and then pulled harder. She unleashed a muffled shriek. What remained of her underpants fell to the floor.
Her lips supple, wet and warm increased the speed of my beating heart. Pushing more and more blood to my rapidly engorging member. She hissed and thrashed about playfully as I unbuckled my belt.
Was this what she wanted? Had I gone too far? Do I really care? Should I stop?
Her cries said ‘stop’ but her eyes cried out to ravage her, hurt her just a little — and enjoy it.
I folded the cool hard black leather and struck her across the ass. The sound of leather snapping on flesh echoed through the halls of our abode. My eyes poured over her soft curvy body and tattered clothes — encapsulating every sensual sensory detail and storing each beautiful and erotic visual, searing them into my memory. Bound, nude, and vulnerable I threw her over my shoulder and carried her into the bedroom.
We lay there out of breath, covered in sweat, and each other’s sweet juices.
“So how was that?” I asked.
“Amazing. Fuck. I feel… Oh god so good” she mumbled in-between breathes.
We stare at each other. Her eyes peering directly into mine. She opens the bedside drawer removes and lights our cigarettes. She chuckles, rubbing her rope-burns, and taking stock of her torn clothes and trashed bedroom.
“I love you,” she coos.
“Love you too, my filthy lil’ fuck slut.”
We laugh. She slips into a warm bath, and I begin to plan …
King in the North more like King of being Shit.
LOSE IN THE AT TO FUCKING DOMINIXES
IMMEDIATELY GO SHOOT A PROM MOON
LOSE FOUR CARRIERS
Black Legion, ladies and gentlemen.
we actually took a dyspro moon why dont you go gargle some cocks you dickfag
You should change your avatar to Dyspro to reflect your newfound ~success~, then.
Fuck off richter I posted first.
Elo, has your alliance bought you another Titan yet?
Tell me about your slowcat fleet, Elo.
you had yours till you lost them in a tragic no helmet accident didnt you
For being the "king in the north" you're being quite unchill.
It pains me to see you all fighting. Richter, Dysphonia, don't you know retards have the strength of 10 men? He might come beat you up on the playground if you aren't careful.
Please excuse my friends Elo. They don't quite understand that special children like you need special attention. Hugs?