by Cerys du Lys
I grab my crotch and bury my hands in my pants. Yeah. Fuck. Yes. Good. I’ve got balls. I am not without them. I still have my testicles. Great. This is going to be a really good fucking day, you know that? Let’s all fucking celebrate.
Angeline takes another bite of her toast, then feeds me again. I bite without thinking. I get jam on my lip, but who the fuck cares? Angeline does. Shit.
She leans down and licks my lip clean, then she fucking kisses me.
Did I tell you how really fucking hungry I am? Yeah, guess what? I don’t want toast anymore. I’ve still got balls and I want to fucking use them.
I don’t know how the fuck I manage it, but the plate of toast goes on the bedside table in a somewhat respectable and polite manner. That’s it. That’s all the patience I’ve got. I grab Angeline and pull her into bed with me. Get the fuck out of her, blankets. It’s morning. I don’t need any of your shit.
Angeline’s in bed. We’re in bed. Together. Fuck yeah. She’s wearing these cute fucking blue pajamas. Regular blue pajama pants, and some adorable as fuck pale blue top that clings to her breasts. It’s loose, though, not tight. I don’t know how the fuck it clings to her breasts like that. I’m not a woman’s fashion designer. It just fucking clings, and I love it.
I start to fucking go punch drunk mad with insane lusting love fuckability. Yeah, I made that word up. Fuck you. I want to empty the contents of my beautiful fucking balls inside of this gorgeous woman’s cunt. I’m real fucking romantic like that.
I start to try to do that and then I realize I’m wearing pink. What the fuck? It’s a pink shirt, like Angeline’s, and it’s clinging to me, too. Are men’s shirts supposed to cling? Fuck if I know. I check quick, and I’m wearing pink fucking pajama pants, too. Angeline is looking at me like I’m crazy.
Fuck you, love. Yeah, I’m crazy. You’re crazy. We’re all fucking mad here. Let’s have a goddamn tea party and celebrate the fact that it’s not our birthday. I’ll even wear a goofy fucking hat. What time is it? Who the fuck cares!
“What’s with the pink shit?” I ask. Have to get that out of the way before I fuck this beautiful bitch senseless. Sorry, I phrased that wrong. Going to make fucking love to this beautiful bitch, senselessly. Good? Yeah. Fuck off.
“You do not like it?” she asks. She tilts her gorgeous fucking head to the side, questioning me.
“It’s pink, love,” I say. “It’s fucking pink.”
“I like pink,” she says.
What the fuck happened to her eyes? Fuck. I love her eyes. I lean down close and touch my nose to hers and just stare into her pretty fucking eyes. Fuck. Let’s just do this all day. Do people do that? Is that a thing or what? Someone fucking tell me, quick.
She’s no longer soulless and empty and I don’t know when the fuck that happened, but I kind of like it. I like it now, at least. I liked the soulless shit before. Seemed real fucking dangerous and raw. Made her look like a badass.
Fuck, this bitch is dangerous. I need to remember that.
I have a damn itch on the end of my nose and I try to wiggle my nose against hers to scratch it, but that doesn’t work. How the fuck should I know that wouldn’t work? I’ve never done this before. I go to scratch it, but I use the wrong hand. I’ve got no fucking nails. Fuck.
She took them. Yeah, I don’t know how I feel about that, either. Who the fuck am I? I don’t know. Who the fuck knows? My fingers hurt. I’ve still got some splint thing on my other hand, but it’s small. That hurts, too. My finger is fucking broken. This gorgeous bitch laying under me broke it. She’s fucking dangerous. She’s fucking psychotic and crazy and insane and dangerous. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.
God, I want to fuck her so bad.
She reaches up with a dainty, pretty hand, and scratches my nose with one of her petite fucking gorgeous fingers. Aw yeah. I move into her hand like a fucking cat. She scratches more. The itch is gone. Keep going, love. I don’t care. Let’s just keep doing this.
We don’t keep doing this. She kisses me. I kiss her. We roll, I roll, she rolls. We’re laying on our sides now, face to face. How the fuck do you have sex like this? No fucking clue, don’t ask me. I mean, yeah, if she was facing away from me, and we were spooning, I can see how that’d work, but we’re not. We’re facing each other. This is not how that works.
She puts a hand on my lips and shushes me, but I’m not even fucking talking. Fuck her.
“No,” she says.
One fucking word. No, what? Fuck you, Ange.
“I want to fuck--” Damnit, I screwed that up. I try to fix it halfway. “--ing make love to you, Ange.”
I’m real fucking smooth. Don’t forget it.
“No,” she says.
Fuck.
Why the fuck am I listening to her? You know why? Because. That’s why. That’s it. Fuck off. I don’t know why, either. Probably because she knows thirty-seven different ways to kill me with her bare hands, she’s ripped out six of my fingernails, and she likes the taste of my blood. Also, I love her goddamn eyes. Fuck.
That’s how they get you, apparently. Men only marry women who do all that shit I just mentioned. It is a known fucking fact. I’ve done research.
I’m not going to marry Angeline, though. I just want to fuck her senseless. She’s not letting me. This is really fucking difficult.
“We must talk,” she says.
“Look, love,” I say. “I admit that I want to bend you over backwards and fuck your tight little cunt hard, but I don’t want you to castrate me because of that.”
“I understand,” she says.
“So I’ve got a proposition,” I say. I thought this shit up just now. Wait until you hear it. It’s good.
“What?” she asks.
“Anal sex,” I say. I’m fucking brilliant. I swear I could solve world hunger if someone gave me a chance.
She stares at me and blinks. She keeps blinking. “I do not know if you are serious or if that is a joke,” she says.
I thought I was really fucking clear I was serious? How did she not get that? I stare at her, brow scrunched, confused as fuck.
She laughs at me. It’s a small little titter and not becoming of this dangerous fucking bitch, but it’s so fucking arousing to me. I am erect. My cock is hard. I want to stick it inside of her, somewhere. Yeah, I’ve got a way with words right now.
“Do you remember me?” she asks.
“Yeah?” What the fuck? I don’t know how I could forget. “Sorry for being a vulgar asshole, love. Mistress Angeline. Whatever the fuck.”
“I am glad you apologized, Noah, but you do not remember,” she says. “I know you,” she adds. “I remember.”
“Yeah, I mean, I know you, too,” I say. “Who the fuck doesn’t know about Angeline? You’re kind of fucking well known in this business. People say not to fuck with you. I used to think it was bullshit, but I guess I can understand it now.”
She nods and she smiles, but it’s not a happy smile. It’s not sad, either. It’s just a smile.
“There are stories about you, too, Noah. I believe they are similar to ones they tell about me,” she says.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I say. It’s not like we’re the only ones, though.
She confirms that. “There are others like us,” she says.
I just look at her now, because I don’t know what the fuck she wants me to say.
After a few seconds, she says, “You do not remember me.”
I don’t know what the fuck she’s talking about. I usually wouldn’t care. I already know she’s a crazy fucking bitch. I don’t know why this recent crazy thing confuses me more than the rest of her crazy shit. It makes me think I’m missing something. You ever walk out of your house and you’re pretty fucking positive you’ve got everything you need, except you can’t shake the feeling that you don’t? There’s something you’re forgetting, but you don’t know what the fuck it is?
Yeah, this is that. It pisses me off. I’m not mad, I just do
n’t know what the fuck I’m forgetting.
It fucking dawns on me suddenly, though. I still don’t know what the fuck I forgot, but I remember something else.
“How’d you know my name?” I ask. “My real name? No one knows my name, Angeline. It’s not like it’s just hard to fucking find. It’s impossible. I mean it. Literally no one should know my name. No one’s ever called me that. How the fuck do you know my name?”
Yeah, some people called me that. A long fucking time ago. Then I stopped being him. I didn’t exist anymore. I fucking disappeared and I became Noah. In between that, I was just some fucking kid who knew a bunch of shit about how things worked. I learned more until I knew what I know today. It’s not that fucking hard to learn shit, especially when you already know how some of it works and you’ve got a strong desire to fucking do it.
I had the strongest fucking desire, but it wasn’t for the reasons anyone would think. The reasons didn’t even fucking make sense to me at first. It was a slow boil. It was like some divine fucking revelation. This is what you’re going to do with your life, and then I fucking did it. It seemed right at the time.
I don’t know if it was. I know what I did. I saw her and I promised her and I needed to make absolutely fucking sure it was true. I needed to know it’d always be true. I would never do anything to break that. Fuck, it was the only thing I lived for. Even now, it still is.
How the fuck could I forget? I can’t. I won’t. I never will.
I feel like maybe I already fucking have. I don’t want to forget about her. I used to think that someday I could go back to her, that I could find her, but I can’t. How the fuck would I explain everything to her? She’d fucking hate me and I’d deserve it.
*** Angeline
How do you explain to someone that you want to kill them, but you also want to love them forever? How do you tell them that the thought of watching them struggle and writhe beneath you while you slowly tear out their throat is as erotic to you as the look of pained ecstasy on their face when you are watching them reach climax after intense sexual exertion? How do you say that the taste of their kiss on your lips is as sweet to you as the taste of their blood when you lap it off their warm body with your tongue, which is also as sweet as the taste of their fervid arousal splashing against the back of your throat once you bring them to orgasm with your mouth?
How do I explain this to Noah? I do not know. I do not understand how I can feel this way, either.
I do understand somewhat. I understand that the idea of killing him is an immediate contradiction to the thought of loving him forever. Is it, though? I do not know.
If Noah is dead, I can still love him. I cannot speak to him ever again, though. I cannot see him smile or be happy. I cannot taste his kiss on my lips. I can remember the taste of his kiss on my lips, but that is not the same.
If I love him forever, I will never be able to kill him, though. I will not see the hurt and struggle on his face as I straddle him and dig my nails into his throat and pull and pull and rip until the life leaves his body.
If he lives, and I love him, will he love me in return? If he does not, I do not know if that is acceptable. What if he lies? Does Noah lie? Yes, I think he must. Everyone must at times. I have lied. I told him I would castrate him, and yet I have not done it. I do not know if I will. I think I should, but I enjoy the look and feel of his erection.
If he lives and I love him and he loves me in return, will he... will he kiss me? Yes, I think so. I will be able to taste the sweetness of his seed when I have him in my mouth and I bring him to climax, too. I think Noah will like that. Will he like my taste, too? I do not know. I would like to know.
Can I taste his blood, though? Is that allowed? Will he let me? If I bite his lip hard enough to make him bleed, he will feel pain, but, oh, I want it. I love it. I want to taste it. I want to run the blade of a knife along his fingertip and watch the blood well up until I cannot stand to wait any longer and I suckle on his finger in erotic glee.
Briefly, I wonder about combining all three of those? Is that possible? What if I make a slight cut on the shaft of Noah’s cock? If I do that, every time I take all of him into my mouth, my throat, and between my lips, I may taste his blood, as well. When he finally releases himself into my mouth, I will have the taste of his blood and his seed on my tongue. Then I will crawl up his body, scratching and clawing my way up his chest, until I can kiss him with so much passion and need.
Oh, that would be wonderful. It will allow me to taste everything about him. I want it. Is that acceptable, Noah? I have not asked him this, though. I do not speak of these thoughts and ideas. They cannot be said aloud. I understand that they do not sound good. If you tell someone you wish to kill them, it is bad. They become afraid and scared of you.
There is more though. There is more that, if I tell Noah about it, he will not like me. He did not want me to do that. I need to tell him, though. It is important. Noah is special to me. He has always been special to me. I am special to him, too. That does not mean that I have always been special to him, though. I was once special, but now I am not. I was once someone else, but now I am Angeline.
He was someone else, too, though. He was not always Noah. Now he is. I liked him before and I like Noah now. He is not any different to me than he was; he is the same.
I promise myself I will tell him. I must tell him one thing at a time, though. I do.
“Noah,” I say, “I want to hurt you.”
“Yeah, I get it,” he says. “I haven’t been following the rules. I think they’re shitty rules, but I’ll work on it, alright?”
I smile a little, because it is true. Noah is not good with rules. He once pretended he was good with rules, but even then he was not. I do not know if he has ever followed them.
“No,” I say. I do not know how to explain this to him, so I say it without trying to explain. “Noah, I want to kill you. I think about it often. Even right now, I am thinking about it. I think about what you will look like if I do. I think about how you will look at me and I imagine every detail. If I strangle you to death, I think of what shade of purple your face will become, and whether your tongue will become bloated and thick in your mouth afterwards. I think of how bloodshot and red your eyes will be. I think about killing you and leaning down and holding your eyelid open and licking your eye once you are still and lifeless. I think about things like that, Noah. I cannot stop. I always think them.”
I do not tell him that I do not necessarily mean to think these things, because I do not know if that is true. I do not know if this is a correct association, but in the same way that one might see an attractive person on the street and be curious as to how they appear when they are no longer wearing clothes, that is how I look at Noah. I look at others in a similar way sometimes, but none fascinate me as much as Noah does. He is mine, my obsession, and he has always been that to me.
“That’s kind of fucking morbid,” he says.
That is sad. I stare at him and I do not know what to feel now. Do I feel sadness or anger? What do I do? Do I kill him or do I beg for him to understand me?
“But hey, look, love, I think about shit like that too,” he says. “I don’t know, maybe it’s fucking normal? Maybe not. We’re both kind of fucked up, aren’t we? Yeah, fuck you, Angeline, I’m dragging you into this, too. You’re as fucked up as me. I thought about killing you last night, remember? I don’t know where the fuck that knife is now, but I haven’t thought about killing you since then. I’ll probably think about it later. I’ll add it to my to-do list or some shit. I’m still fucking pissed at you. You get really fucking crazy sometimes, and yeah, then I think about killing you, too. I think if we both calm the fuck down and stop with the crazy shit, we can figure something out, though.”
I stare at him and I do not know whether to smile or cry. What he said was not sensitive or necessarily sweet, but I like it. I like the way Noah is, because it is real to me. I feel that I can be real when I am with him. I
do not know what “real” is, but I feel like he will show me and that he can help me to know it again.
I decide to smile, but I think I am almost crying, too. “You no longer think of killing me, because now you are thinking of having sex with me,” I say.
“Yeah, true,” he says. “There’s that.”
“Noah, I am scared,” I say.
He stares at me as if he does not know what to think of this. I do not know what to think of it, either.
“You?” he asks.
“I love you,” I say.
I did not mean to say that. I did mean to, but I did not mean to say it so soon. I did not mean to say it now. It came out without a thought or hesitation. It came out because it is real to me and Noah makes me feel like I am real again and I want to tell him real things. I am important, I am special, I am...
He pulls away from me and leaves me. He sits at the end of the bed, refusing to look at me.
“Cut the fucking shit, Ange,” he says. “Seriously, fuck off.”
“Why?” I ask. I want to ask more, but I do not know how. Why are you being like this? Why do you not love me? Why do you not understand? Why do you not remember?
Why, Noah? Why?
“I don’t know what the fuck your game is,” he says. “I don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with you. I get it, alright? I do. Fuck! This whole fucking... this whole fucking world is bullshit, you know? Who the fuck are we? No one fucking knows. Love’s a bunch of fucking bullshit, too, though. We both know you don’t love me, love. So let’s stop doing this fucking make believe pretend shit and get that out of the way.”
“I do,” I say. “I do love you.”
He turns to look at me over his shoulder.
I try. I try to look good. I try to look regular. I want him to know now. I did not want him to know, but now I do. I need it. I will tell him everything. I promise, Noah, I will tell you. I do not know why I have done what I did. It was necessary. I could not stop. I wanted to do it differently but I did not think you would listen and so... but you are not listening. Why are you not listening? Why must this be so painful and difficult for me? I want to know and be known. I want someone to understand me.
