Notes from the Slave – Ad Vat
May 30, 2025
The plan in its precise implementation went as follows: After 16 days of texting with the Slave (and yes, It was far too quick to trust me, and I made sure to drag along the initial flirtation so that It was without any serious doubt of my intentions), It was instructed to meet me at the cheapest motel on the outskirts of Astoria, Oregon, which It believed to be my town of residence. It was to check in with the money I had wired It an hour prior, leaving a key at the desk for Its companion. (I had a fake ID made last month strictly for this motion, even though I was quite sure the clerk wouldn’t bat an eye.) It was to arrange Its things neatly in the room, clothes in drawers, bathroom supplies in plastic bags, and medications on the nightstand. It was to take extreme caution in placing Its taser in the off position and on the far-off table under the television, for Its safety and mine. It was to shower, empty Its bowels with an instant glycerin insertable, brush, and floss Its big, clowny teeth. It was to undress, put on the black burqa which I had It purchase on my behalf, and underneath remain nude. It was to lay on the bed over the covers and wait for my entrance. During these waning minutes, It could close Its eyes and dream about our romance, how much I loved It — and called It good boy and fawned over Its every good quality. It was to meditate on the many things It Itself bloviated to me, Its fetishistic desire for me, Its need to be drenched in my semen from the top down, to be owned, to be scorned, and to be loved.
For background, I sent It a college snapshot of my childhood acquaintance, who was handsome and so loosely connected to me that all of Berkeley would have to be implicated to trace this catfish back to me. All other pictures It received were either AI-generated to Its fullest likeness or vague images of me in a Covid mask, sometimes with my hand clenching my cock, my hair dyed to look like Mr. Bright and Talented who was now nestled somewhere in Silicon Valley. Wouldn’t it be riveting to watch that old fool get got? I’ve never made such a checkmate —a Suffocation mate at that —Truman’s castle, family, and business all propped up around him, the perfect haystack to fan to the flames of an investigation.
But my mind was far away from those California fires as I capped my Exo-glass and pulled the borrowed van to the front door of the room where I had spied the Slave walk in, undo the front curtains, undress, and veil itself. I dipped the thick white cloth into chloroform from an old brown medical bottle in my front seat, and I crumpled the thing in my trench coat pocket—time to act fast.
I walked to the front office, where I presented the fake ID. I only took my face mask off for the old Asian attendant to check the shopped photo so I wouldn’t appear noticed on her security camera, which was angled only at the cash register/right side of the counter. She handed me the key to room 310 and I swiftly found myself at the threshold of my new life. There was no time to contemplate anymore. Only time to open the door with the slider and encroach upon the languid Slave. It was short like a boy, and under the veil Its form was genderless. Its bare feet poked out of the black ends, toes trimmed and painted with a clear polish. Its arms draped over the covers, and Its palms lay open. I could see Its facial muscles stirring from behind the burka. Its eyeballs wincing, trying to stay in character, pretending a death over the sun-stained Argyl print of the quilt. The Slave held Its eyes now more tightly, as I began to kneel over It, and I reached out my large hand to hold Its cold cheek, and with my other, I fingered the rag, and It began to lift Its lids to get a good look at me. I pinned Its legs with my girth and while It suddenly realized the gravity of the mess It was in, It struggled while I pinned It with my whole right arm — my elbow digging into the breastplate —and my left hand forced Its breath in the chloroform rag, subduing the Slave until It simply went limp.
And there It was, limp in my arms. I didn’t think when I lifted the black veil in one motion from the head, exposing this pale naked body and slight goosebumps along Its chest, arms, and thighs. I felt a freakishly erotic emotion wash down my face and into my pants. This was now going to segue into dangerous improvisation, I thought but brushed off my worry. I had lots of chloroform. I held Its face to my chest like a doll. I squeezed the skin, enveloping a squishy layer of fat—as if stuffed with mozzarella. It smelled like black cherries, a cologne. I lay Its head back on the fresh pillow, with my thick fingers I lightly peeled open Its eye to watch it roll back, and they were dark green. Its hair was messed around It, a bad, dark red dye job, and jaw-length. I slid my fingers down his belly like caressing a new Italian vehicle. Briefly, I questioned the Slave’s worth in the black market. However, this was committal for me. I savored my first swipe of Its wet genitals.
A female. This I knew, the Slave was even pleasant enough to say — “I’ll be whatever you want me to be, call me whatever you want to call me.” It was a tranny abandoned by the sexual market. It was obvious to me that the Slave was highly desirable, but only behind closed doors and private browsers. It could be a lot of things for many people. Thin the Slave out and It would look like a little girl — chested flat. Grow Its hair long and dress It in tawdry clothes, maybe. Only, Its voice was boyish. Deeper than any normal woman. That’s why I prefer to take It as It is, an androgyne. I embraced the choice, staring at Its serene sleep while my fingers swirled in the clamshell. I am rock-hard. I undo my zipper so I can begin messing about with the thing’s holes. It had a soft, wet, pink, fatty pussy. The lips were small but elastic, and I made sure to swirl the head of my erection in this mound, and I almost blew, blew before I could stick it in the slit.
I had to practically pry the thing open — by the way. A slumbering slit is not an open one. It was practically clenching itself in its sleep before I had all the gall to poke and prod it, with a thrust I jimmied it loose. It’s hard to find words, but I can say that even as a virgin I didn’t combust at first meeting with that hot, tight sack. As I came long and hard and attempted to keep up the thrust—I vowed to only and always come in the Slave for the rest of Its life.
I slung the Slave over my shoulder and braved the walk to the borrowed van. It would look like a black sack after I covered Its long, bowing feet, dangling. I opened the back doors of the van and laid the Slave crouched on Its knees; arms splayed out over the back of Its head on the hard plastic of the thing. Motions and thrusts — I was full of them. I climbed into the passenger compartment, stuffing my schlubby frame in while I admittedly skillfully dragged the Slave by the palms into the black cell I had installed two weeks prior. It was doubly veiled, and I cut a rectangular slit out of the blackboard to reveal Its eyes from my back mirror. This way I could watch It sleep, and know when It wakes, and I could see how scared It was when It found Its arms to be tied in a knot behind Its back, and Its feet to be cuffed to the floor. From Its perspective— I would be like an alien prober in a world of hot light that is the setting sun over the highway —wondering if it was all a dream in the comfy blackness I had constructed so beyond dedicatedly.
After my Slave was safely tucked into the cell, I was apt to gather and inspect all of Its items, noting Its medications — (generic lurasidone, Modafinil, melatonin, stool softeners, progesterone (for birth control) and a bag of powdered kratom), then began bagging Its clothing and making damn sure I had secured Its wallet on my person, I pulled out of that sad shantytown motel.
Those beautiful eyelashes still lay sunken into tear ducts. With my luck today, the Slave might sleep the whole way. I was a little nervous that I had used too much chloroform! But I fought the need to pull over and check the Slave’s soft pulse because I relived fucking the hot pussy and knew there wasn’t a chance that the pussy was dead in the responsive state I had left it in. Hungry even, once I got it going.
As I followed those winding yellow lines down the I-5 listening to Elvis Costello and the Attractions sing “Possession,” I remembered the Slave’s long email It had written to me — it was Its memoir through email, Its repetitious pleadings like howls in the hollow walls of my skull to the beat of “Possession”—
“I am an Angel. It pains me to realize that every day I go on. Angels feel pain. I am an earth, Angel. Fallen. I am a street, Angel. A Zen Angel. I give to the beggars if I have a dollar on me, because if you’re reading this you probably don’t save every measly dollar, unless you live somewhere culturally different. Where I come from, money is liquid, and just as easily as you can grasp it can run away. Where I come from, there’s a lot of people like me, that play the game because you’re in unless you kill yourself, but secretly you’ve already given up. You buy things when you can, oh you buy things. It’s one of the only things that bring you happiness these days. That and being tied to a bed. What kind of vile person would believe in Karma? Me, and millions of Hindus. What kind of disgusting human being would believe in the elect? I believe in the elect of this earth, and we see it every day, just as it is, and isn’t it as what is or what will be what it should be? There will always be a lack forever and onwards, and who cares how it’s distributed, as long as I have less. Less lack is more, that’s what we all believe. I am an Angel. It pains me to realize that every day I go on. Angels feel pain. I am an earth, Angel. Fallen. I am a street, Angel. A Zen Angel. I give to the beggars if I have a dollar on me, because if you’re reading this you probably don’t save every measly dollar, unless you live somewhere culturally different. Where I come from…”
Silly Slave. If you’re an Angel, why don’t you spread your wings and leave my dirty nest? Why don’t you evaporate into the blackness of my little chthonic box I’ve carefully sealed you in. My eyes trailed once again to the rear view as we passed another road stop with golden arches, as if I was scared the Slave would evaporate. We’d been on the road for a few hours, and I was beginning to feel this sense of derealization, that none of this was serious, and none of it real. The fast-food pillars gleamed cartoonish, and the darkness of the northwest pines made our peripherals look like soup. The Slave in Its box looked like a pair of floating, closed eyes, and then they fluttered.
Slowly but surely Its eyes uncomfortably blinked awake, in a drowsy state, and I watched sharing Its horror as It took in what It saw before him — that white hot light of my windshield, and my rearview mirror centered before It so that It stared into Itself.
“Wh—what is this?” It drizzled, Its lips starting to feel themselves once again.
“Wh—Why am I tied up, where are you taking me?”
I wanted to laugh at Its horrors! The little punk sounded like a boy-child, practically whispering, and perhaps reluctantly giving into captivity already!
I huffed and then began, hoping to make my best impression.
“I’m taking you to your new home, Slave,” I said a little too audaciously.
“I suppose there’s no use screaming,” the Slave droned, depressively.
“No, no one will hear you. You better think of stories to entertain both of us, we have a while to go.” I said and thought yes, put ‘em to work.
“What’re you sex trafficking me, Mister?” It said cartoonishly, like Bugs Bunny. Changing Its tactic, I presumed.
“Undoubtedly.”
The Slave grumbled. It must have been sore, and uncomfortable; heart palpitating and beads of sweat plopping off Its nose. Its eyes were teary.
“W—Well, what do you want me to talk about?” It pouted.
“I want to know tales from your life. Musings, like you wrote to me in your emails.” My eyes must have twinkled with fascination, as I monitored the changing landscapes of the road as well as the Slave’s volition.
There was a droning silence.
“How, about, well, how about…how about two truths and a lie?”
I guffawed. My laughter overwhelmed the vehicle, beating on the hard plastic.
“Yes! Yes Slave, you little menace. Make it a game, wonderful. I knew I grabbed the crème of the crop!”
He grunted, probably pawing at his own clamped hands. And then, he began.
“I, I suppose I should explain myself to you.”
The Slave warned.
“Go on.”
“Well, nymphomania you see is not a real diagnosis, but “excessive” or “compulsive” sexual drive is often part of a diagnosis of another health condition. I’ve talked about the one I have plainly to the grave, and I don’t really want to talk about that anymore. I’m bored of what I really have, I’d rather swim in its weird attributes, the things that make my life hard and good. My nymphomania is worse now than ever before, and I’m 28 years old. I thought that I’d be over it by now, but it’s more acute. It hurts. It’s actually painful. It’s just that, it’s hard to enjoy anything else or think about anything else. It’s hard to exist when I’m not on my way to a guaranteed sex act, or in one. When I find someone to have sex with me well, they are my whole world. They are limerence, they are a reason for me to live and maybe I won’t buy that thing because I have them in my life. But they never feel that way about me. No one has ever wanted or needed me like I’ve wanted or needed them. No one I’m interested in anyways. I have standards just like anyone and I wish I didn’t have any at all. I probably have less than most people, so I guess that wouldn’t classify me as an incel or what have you. I’m open to possibilities and actually trust in my perception of someone and their attractiveness to mutate as it’s happened before. It will happen again.”
It raised an eyebrow in the mirror as if talking about our relationship.
“So, you fall hard?” I managed to mutter, beginning to like where this was going however wanting to remain cautious considering Its audacity.
“So it’s like, it’s like it feels like my head is being ground in a sex machine constantly, and I’m begging for it constantly and I get it, sometimes. When I get it, I smother them and you’d think I’d know better by now, but I can’t help it, because it’s like I want to see if it’s me on the other end. Does this person who I’ve only met in this intense intimate act desire another as much as I do? Are they suffering in limerence as I am and is love to them a grinding sex machine, acute and hurting always and begging always. It’s sad because what I really want is me, another copy of me. I’m attracted to my mind because it’s in the grinder and when you’re in the grinder all you want is the grinder so honestly, I’d just like another person addicted to the grinder. I actually don’t go on Grindr. You know — the app.”
There was a pause as if It was waiting for my approval.
“The person I last talked to besides you, I met on a site called fetlife.com. I don’t go on Grindr because I don’t have a penis. I’m all holes, no brains. Born a female, but raised in anti-tradition, gender chaotic, and woman-owned, I took male hormones in my early twenties and now the Gen Pop would call me “trans,” and on Fetlife I call myself a “transboi” when I make ads entitled “Are you, my Dad?” But what I identify as is an “Androgyne.” I almost didn’t want to divulge any of that because now you’ll see me in that feminine sort of way but no matter. I am starting to feel awfully sore down there so it seems as though you’ve already experienced my lady parts, and once the deed is done, you’ll never see me as anything else. But hear this — you won’t be getting any feminist leftist gobbly gook from me. You won’t be getting anything you want a “transman” to say. You won’t be getting any justice. Only liberation. Justice can suck my enlarged clitoris. I’m a fucking cruel human being and I’m better because I’m fucking honest about it, and I’m a fucking capitalist and I’m a fucking racist just like everyone else is naturally, and I’m a fucking feminist when it serves me and I fucking serve women a skewer when it serves me, straight up the cervix and out the mouth.”
I tittered at his strange diatribe. “You don’t say —”
“Because I’m a fucking true-blue bisexual, but romantically I fake it less with men. I fall into limerence with them. It’s this word that I heard in counseling— “limerence” is this feeling like you have fallen in love with someone when you haven’t gotten the chance to get to know them. It’s unrequited, sure. My issue, is that I fall into limerence with someone, one after another and then some, and I don’t even know how to live without being in limerence or why and how it happened to me, but I can tell you that it hurts almost as much as the nymphomania because I’ve never been on the other end of that limerence, and wouldn’t it be a stroke of luck to fall in limerence with someone with the same disease? I guess that’s what I pray for every day of my fucking life.”
Its eyes glittered hopefully, following the chopped yellow lines.
“You feel like no one’s ever loved you?” I interjected solemnly.
“N—no, not really. I can’t stand it. Cause that unrequited thing man, it hurts. I want to die every day because whoever is my fixation doesn’t feel the same and gosh, why would they? Sometimes I think it’s because of the androgyny like they are too straight or too gay for me and all, but really, I just think that other people’s brains don’t fucking work like mine. I just want to scream at the motherfucker that we could die tomorrow, and if we get married and then divorce a year later, I don’t give a fuck. Just give it to me. Give all of yourself to me now. Now is what matters because I’m a fucking Angel. And I just met you like a day ago and I’m flirting like a pedophile in a nursery, like— you’ve never been molested like that in a text before.”
It was getting haughty.
“The vocabulary, and the over-share and the perfect question and everything I offer you and nothing that I want but to service and for you to cum and offers of the massage and foot rub and pleasure experiments and that I’ll wear anything for you, and I’ll be anything for you because I’m an actor and you don’t even have to get to know the real me because I am service animal to you —”
“Is that what you think you are to me, a working dog?”
“Maybe. You should know: It’s easy to hurt me, you know. I come off creepy, I know that but, I’ve accepted that as part of my identity and that might take a lot to dig that fucking manifold out. Cause I’m not a fucking creep, that’s not what it is at all.”
He laughs like he’s deeply disturbed.
“What it is, is that whoever accepts this offer hits the fucking jackpot. I’m nonviolent, I’m an Angel. I, my friend, am awake to the possibility. Where others see darkness, I see a tunnel. Where others see apathy, I see the calm before the storm. I see a marriage of heaven and hell like no other when I’m stuffed with your cock and sucking your fingers while our toes are locked together.”
I felt the blood rush down to the top of my cock.
“One time — here is story one— I made a massage ad. “Tantric” massage is something I’d like to get good at, and I’ve been a massage prostitute since age 22. I’ve never really made much money, just enough to pay that last bill I couldn’t pay otherwise. I always sold myself dirt cheap because it just made the searching for clientele easier, and easy to turn down if they wanted to come back. Plus, most guys looking for prostitutes aren’t looking for tranny boys. The sad reality is my choice lowered my options in the dating and sexual market.
Anyways, it was an advertised massage and happy ending on fetlife.com, where I posted in the classifieds. He was the only young buck I’d seen all day, as mostly I saw 100 cocks from oafy bulls 50+ years old, and unfortunately, that’s still not my type.”
He looked up at my reflection panning from the front window nervously.
“He looked like some nerd in the pictures he sent me. There is absolutely nothing remarkable about him. I’d been literally on FetLife all day, an 8-hour shift flopping my greasy, cucumber-scented lotioned body all over the bed and applying multiple creams and shaving my body bald, leafing through cock after cock until finally I found someone at least around my age and decent in communication. No offense.
He came up two hours before my shift at the front desk to my suite on the second floor, and I started him off on his stomach, both naked, grinding on his back and oiling him, pressing my grease on him, kissing him. He held off, amazingly, from touching me as long as he could. That was what was so magical about this one is he knew how to hold his desires off. Most guys fuck you like it’s some kind of sport, and they want you to come first but of course lose patience. This man was different in that he knew how to tease, and edge, and took pleasure in my own, my desire, and he stayed perfectly still as I made out with his legs with my ass in his face, and when I looked back to check in on him to see how he was receiving this and everything, he looked at me and smiled, and he said, “this feels so good.” That was enough for me, and I really sucked him off with all the passion that had been begging inside me that pitiful day like a boy put in a hole who finally found a rope on out. He fucked me like no other person has ever fucked me before. Instead of spanking me like how a man is supposed to, he made like he was and intentionally held off. That tease made me cry.”
I was now fully erect, my member bending with my pants. I had no other choice but to undo my zipper.
“I didn’t kiss him that night. I kissed him the second time we fucked, the last time. It was about a week and a day after. It kind of makes me sad, because this is when I realized I really actually liked this guy. Now I got a good look at his face; when before, I was trying not to look at him. He was pretty, really, under a neurotically trimmed beard and he had blue eyes, and pretty jaw-length hair. He was nice and tall, thin but the body of a computer engineer. He looked naturally friendly, smart, and clean. I thought I was in love with him. He was supposed to sneak into my bed while I was sleeping with the key under the mat, but when he came in my cat freaked out and I had to calm him down. So, he fucked me while both my legs crossed around him as I licked his neck. He told me to loosen my grasp on him while he was stuffed inside of me because he has a breeding kink. When we made out it felt right, it wasn’t too sloppy, it was contained like it was a real suction and we had similar-sized mouths. It was perfect, oh, and another thing about this particular guy is that he can come multiple times in a row. He told me his record was 7 in one night. Wow. He came again after I stopped him from breeding me and then while we made out I rode him nicely, so he didn’t have to do much.”
I was both annoyed as much as I was turned on. Why spend so much time on some lay? I half-heartedly stroked myself with my left hand while we cruised, just entering southern Oregon. My right hand on the wheel.
“After he left, I grew sorrowful. Bitter and weird like it wasn’t fair that he could just do that to me and go on living his life like nothing had ever happened. I wanted him now forever because no man might ever fuck me like that again. He told me he wanted to keep it casual, and I agreed. He also told me he was going to leash me up, and I agreed. I’m secretly mad at him for deserting me. For not being interested in me seriously. But he probably wants a woman. Will a woman fuck him like I did? With that amount of passion and devotion?
We had agreed not to get to know each other too much, just enough to trust each other. Well, that was a lot of bullshit because I hadn’t heard from him since, and the desire is a little too much to bear now.”
“What did you think you were going to get out of a guy answering a massage ad? Silly Slave.” I managed to compose my breath as if I wasn’t wildly beating it.
“Well mister —I wanted to be a ‘cocktail host.’ A professional tantric masseuse. A body that is cultivated for the sexual gratification of a man. I have a little ways to go down this path. The thing I need to buy is an at-home elliptical machine from Amazon. 100 dollars. A massage table. 100 dollars. Oils, hot creams. I need the bikini wax and all the hair off my body (I’m almost finished lasering my facial hair), my facial hair was the bane of my day to day. I shave and get my professional laser treatment, and I am proud to say I am much softer. By the end of this cultivation, I should look like a young boy, and I already sound like one. (One with a vagina.) I’ve already come a long way. I’ve already cut off my size B puff nipple triangle breasts, (call it mental illness if you want, it surely is, but to that I say — aren’t we all; and in the words of fetish rapper Tommy Genesis, “They want to take me to court for my vision, I’m just executing my vision,” I’m toned because I took testosterone, and am impressively limber due to my serious undertaking of Vinyasa and Bikram yoga. Only, I have a big sandbag boy body, big hips, and an ass with cellulite on the back of my thighs. My waist is pretty snatched, but, my stomach always looks a tad bloated, and my arms have mother’s fat on them, though a little muscular. When my friend picked me up in an embrace, he told me I felt like a big bag of string cheese. I’m a good fuck doll but I’m a little hairy and I have to shave my face every day because my hair is so dark, and the hormone therapy gave me a beard—which, as said, I have almost corrected. I have a good face besides that. I have pretty symmetry and classy eyebrows. I have a money-full face, a deemed good jaw, like a heart. I’m skinny fat and muscular. I’m a big dollboy. My ass is good. It’s fetishistically plump and it’s soft with no blemishes. It looks pretty snuffy when I stick it out. I look like something to ass fuck, for sure, and my favorite way to take it is from behind because my Gspot hits better that way. I like to be fucked slow and to be kissed a lot, and I also like to be leashed and to be told what to do like a service animal. I’m a good fuck doll but I’m a little hairy and I have to shave my face every day because my hair is so dark, and the hormone therapy gave me a beard—which, as said, I have almost corrected. I have a good face besides that. I have pretty symmetry and classy eyebrows. I have a money-full face, a deemed good jaw, like a heart. I’m skinny fat and muscular. I’m a big dollboy. My ass is good. It’s fetishistically plump and it’s soft with no blemishes. It looks pretty snuffy when I stick it out. I look like something to ass fuck, for sure, and my favorite way to take it is from behind because my Gspot hits better that way. I like to be fucked slow and to be kissed a lot, and I also like to be leashed and to be told what to do like a service animal.”
I entered a silo of monotony as we were spat out into the rolling wheat fields of eastern Oregon. I stared into the liminality as I came pitifully in my hand with a bit of dribble on the steering wheel— I realized the Slave had been repeating his lines. He must know I’ve been touching myself, as he droned on until I climaxed…a psychic Slave…
“That, wasn’t a story—and it sure as hell wasn’t a lie.”
“I getcha, I’m just warming up—What do you want me to call you anyways?”
I furrowed my brow. It was strangely calm for a sex trafficking victim. I felt sorrow wash over me, my mind drifting in the blurred wheat around us. This wasn’t supposed to me a romantic comedy. I breathed. I should be grateful—the Slave was practically letting me get away with this, seemingly enjoying it, even. It said as much in Its emails to me; however, I thought It hyperbolic and unstable. I didn’t foresee a calm, cool, and collected slave, especially as I had violated our original agreement of well-being. I was paranoid about this development; however, I had another feeling breeding in me. It was the feeling that my life would be easy with It, after all.
“Truman.”
“We’re sticking with that then huh, daddy? Daddy Truman the kidnapping rapist. The ring of it kinda gets me going.”
It had gone beyond calm and into obnoxious in temperament. I didn’t look at Its intent eyes again in the mirror but curled up inside myself to think. Maybe, I thought, It was growing thirsty, hungry, and therefore irritated — like myself. Luckily, the gas station I pre-plotted was only about 15 miles ahead and was selected for its desolate setting along the strange road stop town and the hippy nightmare of Ashland, nearing the California line. In it, Lithia Park. Which I had pre-selected for the slave’s bathroom break. I didn’t know if I would successfully pull this off, but I planned on pressing my pistol to Its back to bring It behind a bushel to squat. It was too likely that It would call my bluff at this juncture — so It was time to crawl into Its thoughts and begin rewiring.
“Slave, — I am sorry I came on so strong. I’ve never felt so invigorated by someone else’s desires.”
“I just don’t want to die.” It admitted, and It was truthful.
“Look. The more I get to know you, the more I’ll trust you. The more we talk, the more I will see you as irreplaceable. It is as though I already do. But…I can’t have you running away when I’ve put so much work into this, don’t you agree?”
“Fine.”
“So let’s hear it — one more story and I’ll take you to the bushes for a piss.”
“Mister T —better make that a wash. I’m surprised you can’t smell it.”
My eyes rolled back into my skull with frustration. Of course, It peed.
“Well, here’s my second story for now. And you have to find my lie, right?”
It sounded solemn. This was where I wanted It.
“Well, as advertised, massage is one of my most prized skills. Given that, I also frequent the parlors myself. A year ago, for context, I had been getting prodded with dick in my back by a hairy rich Jewish man that I gave a massage to. He’s not much older than me, maybe by six years. I enjoy some of it, but probably not as much as he. It’s pretty filthy sex in where I put on my natural sex voice which are the young whines of a mental child, and I call him Daddy. Every other night he would prod me in the back for hours on end like an erotic swordfish. Now looking back, I think he must have been on a sexual stimulant. However, a smart, rich software engineer is pretty much exclusively what I should be dating due to my financial disposition — and due to his perseverance, I succumbed to semi-enjoy the sex, though he was rabid. He thoughtlessly pulled my hair hard and groped me, slobbering on me like a teenager or wild animal, so I prayed that my attraction would mutate in his favor, and I’d simply get used to Mr. Dick-in-the-back until something more my speed came along.
During this time and to take my mind off the nightly poking, I started going to Asian massage parlors which were much cheaper than the white massage parlors. There is a 25% chance that one of these beautiful women will rape you and demand a hefty tip. The wildest time at a generic Asian massage parlor off Sandy in Portland, I was massaged by a beautiful older Thai woman named ‘Lisa,’ who had fat aged lips. The offices are always bare and liminal, kept eerily clean and empty. Lisa led me to a dark room to undress, and when she saw me naked butt-up she told me I had a ‘beautiful body.’ I told her I preferred hard pressure, and she sure delivered. Karate chop! On top my back, I could feel her pussy lips just gracing my buttocks. She started giggling and muttering to herself like a crazy hoe and smacked me on the butt, said some dirty things I couldn’t quite make out, but I could hear she was toying. I was afraid of her now; when she went out and took a ten-minute call while I was still butt-up, hearing her scream Thai to what I presumed to be her pimp, I thought about sneaking out of the room, but figured that more heated than I was in for if I just stayed.
“She came back and smacked my bottom again, and I had this uncomfortable feeling like she was playing with me as if I was a teenage boy. Did she think I was one? Let me stop here and assure you, the woman thought I had a penis— and when she dug her hands between my thighs and found no hardware, she sized me with an iota.
“When she had me flip over and she felt my pussy, I saw her eyes grow wide in complete shock and embarrassment.
“You have pussy?!” She exclaimed in her accent.
“I looked at her and laughed abashedly, hopefully signaling to her that I was just as surprised as she was, that I wasn’t trying to pull one over on her, that in fact, I just wanted a massage, and the last Asian massage I got was just cheap and the woman didn’t try to rape me.
“She then sat close to me and massaged my arm, and she opened her legs so I could spy a bit of her tan pussy lips in the lamplight. The whole room was done in the wood color of her pussy and her skin.
“You boom-boom guy you boom-boom girl?” She asked, her tone harsh and her toe tapping at me incessantly.
“Boom? Like whom I have sex with?”
“You know, boom-boom!” She smacked her hands together to make those ball-slap squeaks.
“Both…”
“I said, acting my best bashful and trailing off, and she enjoyed my attitude.
“You want have kids?”
“I’m not sure, maybe someday.”
“Who you like boom-boom more?”
“I like girls more probably.” I said, and it was true at that time.
“She rubbed my thigh.
“You want to see my pussy?”
“She was looking at mine. I smiled and held up my hands.
“If that’s what you want to do.”
“She opened her skirt and presented me with that wood-colored pussy with a soft-landing strip. She had a large pussy for those tiny legs she was walking on and for that little pot-belly pouch. It was probably the funniest thing about her— how big that pussy looked in proportion to her little limbs. She had big puffy lips. It took me back to when I was a dishwasher at a Thai restaurant, and my favorite cook was an old Thai woman with fat fucking lips, which looked nice, and I, a 22-year-old androgyne, flirted with that old woman endlessly. She had kissed me on the cheek, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she fantasized about me too.
“Lisa asked if I wanted to pet her pussy, so I gave it one pet. I told her,
“Hey, I can only give you the cash I brought. The 50 and the tip.”
“She said it was fine. She held my hand as we walked out, a baby-soft little hand. As I was on my way, she took all the candy out of the candy bowl at her reception desk and put it in my hands. I crunched the little green melon drops and as I walked away from the massage parlor, I saw her waving gayly at me. I could tell she felt strongly. She wanted me to come back. I could see the outline of those glossed, big brown lips in the window, while she smiled at me still, with the knowledge of my vagina, and for a second, I imagined those lips on some disembodied cock.
“Now, recently I went to another Asian massage parlor, it was an absolute dream. The woman, “Lilly,” didn’t try to rape me. I couldn’t tell what country they were from, certainly Southeast Asia. It was generically entitled ‘Oriental Lotus Spa.’ It is the massage parlor closest to my residence. I saw their prices online, along with some pretty nasty reviews where one man complained about the woman’s lunch break being right in the middle of his massage and it smelled like food on her fingers when she came back to finish him.”
We pulled into the convenience store parking lot. A Grab ‘N’ Go with Arco gas pumps. I yawned. I put the van in park, breathed and scanned my surroundings. Peripheral threats loomed around me and my Slave. Golden hearted truckers. Feminist gas station attendants. Even in a man’s land, urbanite cancer and do-goodery lingered around us.
“Slave,”
“Yes?”
“Considering you’ve already pissed yourself I plan to go in there to buy some water bottles, soap and a rag. I will take a leak myself, then come into the back compartment, wash your legs, and feed you water. Before I leave, I’ll have to gag you. If there’s any unplanned movements from you — i.e., banging your brains against the car door, etc.- I will be sure to snuff you out again with the chloroform— and I know that won’t feel good for you when you wake up. Now, is there anything I can get you in there on the chance that you will be a good prisoner and sit quietly, earning this reward?”
“Yes. I would like a couple of Feel Free’s, and a sugar-free Red Bull, with a water bottle, and a cheese and meat snack tray.”
I turned to It.
“What is this Feel Free?”
“It is a kratom and kava extract in a little deep blue potion bottle. Inside is a bitter green syrup that keeps me an addict. Hits my opioid receptors.”
“Hm.”
“I want these very badly, considering my sore sex and bonded body, I will feel better with a pain killer.”
It talked calmly and matter ‘o’ factly.
“I will be more entertaining for you if you deliver me the Feel Free, as much as you can bring me really.”
I pushed the tip of my nose into the Slave’s compartment slightly through the cut out and felt a rush of pride as I stayed stoic during Its pleas.
“Deal.”
My lips crumpled and chewed.
Less than 10 minutes later, I had taken my well-deserved leak, shook, and bought the whole stock of Feel Frees that sat behind the counter, with the cigarettes and dick pills. I bought a sack of Royal Honey in a quick decision to torture my slave with a 24-hour boner. I bought bottles of Dasani. I bought a cheap bundle of rags. I purchased a generic bottle of dish soap, generic. A sugar-free Red Bull, no doubt to keep Its figure, the snack tray, and a diet Dr. Pepper for the Doc.
When I entered the borrowed van from the back doors, I wrestled with the padlock of the Slave’s cell and found It still tied and bound. I dragged his little wooden chair back to meet my belly and begin furiously washing the Slave’s legs from under the flowing Burka, wiped the little puddle of piss from under Its feet to then toss the piss rag out the end of the van. I slid my hand up further the burka, fondling a bit and squeezing the fat that dripped off Its thighs, only to rip the tape off Its mouth, inducing a muffled, pathetic cry from the bruised lips. I then force-fed it Its blue potion, the Feel Free, and It closed Its eyes and let the syrup drain down Its gullet, my arm wrapped around Its whole head in a lock. I fed It the Dasani, and It was calm with me now, as if this was parental. For strategic measure, I decided on feeding it another blue potion, and It complied and softened. I gave It a mint from my pocket. Once It was re-secured and locked back into the black box, I relaxed. I sat in the front seat and lit a Parliament, watching the Slave’s gaze glaze over from the back mirror, then backed us out and slid into our exit feeling a phantom pat-on-the-back, as my control was prevailing, winning this little battle. If you could call it that.
“Ironic, don’t you think?”
The Slave’s eyes rested.
“What is?”
“You’re addicted to a gas station potion called Feel Free.”
“This may be the freest time of my life. It’s ironic if you’re not emmeshed into my fucking soul, into my retardations, and my brain disease.”
“Explain.”
“I suppose, for your 3rd story.”
“We have all the time we need.”
“I was born a devil baby. Though I was a girl, when I smiled and was captured in the photos, my smile seemed so sinister, like I was a reincarnated repeat male rapist that had been incarnated into a little baby girl, I was overflowing with sinister joy. Sinister in that — I would spend the rest of my life abusing myself and love every second of it.”
“That’s a stretch.”
“But in my heart, I know it is true. The Hindus say that when you die, your soul takes a journey to the moon—if you do not achieve the state of moksha, which is dedicated according to your karma and spiritual pursuit. So being a repeat psychotic rapist that had presumably lived this long life of hedonistic predations, I was a shoo-in for the moon trip, instead of the sun. On the moon, I was met by my ancestors — Dutch, Indonesian, Irish, French, and German — and they concocted one hare-brained plan to send my next reincarnation to the sun, the path to higher realms. It is presumed that my enclave of ancestors had been walking the dark path for well over a millennia, as this previous earth incarnation, my past life, was nothing but predation, darkness, and void. They said —Why not make him what he desires to destroy—so much so that he will obliterate himself and his karma, that he will desire his annihilation, be obsessed and intoxicated by his new being, mending his seed of past incarnation with the death of the self. It’s enough to drive such a lowly animal positively insane. And that’s why, sir, I am a diagnosed schizophrenic, sadomasochist falling somewhere on the sociopathy spectrum rather than, let’s say, an autism spectrum: a pro-Oedipus opportunist, sex pest. I was born to an Irish and German American father who lived out of a trailer in the woods of North Idaho and a Holland-born Dutch-Indonesian mother who grew up in the Modesto suburbs.”
“So, you think by the time you die, you will attain enlightenment?” I smirked.
“If not in this incarnation, I am thrown into the sun, I may come back a non-verbal autist that can’t mix his peas and carrots. But I’d rather not have to go through another experiment in anni—, annihilation.” He droned as if light-headed.
“So, is that the story?”
“The story is that of freedom born from rejection. The story is the alchemy of androgyny, the crisis of the culture at large, a tragedy of ideals, and a fluctuation of collective priority. When I was a child, I was called a tomboy. I came from a family of older brothers. My brothers had a large share in raising me. They tormented me, yes, but they also made me into a boy like them. My eldest brother broke my bike for his pleasure, fed me eggs with all the shells, and left me in the woods to find my way home. They showed me gore when I was young, and I never told on them, at least that’s how I remember. It was a shared understanding that I was in on the debauchery. It was kids against adults. I told my parents I would marry my other brother, Nick. From a young age, all I wanted was to be married, and I would draw and fantasize about being a wife. When I learned that marrying my brother was off the table, I fantasized about marrying my dog, Bear. He was a large Chinook. I drew pictures of heads with a heart over our rudimentary eyes. It felt good to experiment with reality. I felt free. I later learned this dog marriage was even more terrible, apparently, than marrying my brother. I was soon molested by a neighbor, for I was a trusting and agreeable child, and I so wanted to be seen. I never told, until it was far too late. He saw me as a willing subject. And I was. I was scared after. I then moved on to the boys at school. I’d give Valentines and never get them back. I realize now that I was an ugly duckling. The only black kid in my class, Marcus Jackson, threw my love confession away. He told me, to my face in simple honesty, that he wanted nothing to do with me. This was a pattern throughout elementary school and into middle school. All the ones I wanted, and there were plenty I wanted, I could never have.
“My first Hitler-loving Nietzsche freak boyfriend I had was from ages 13-16. My mom, being the hare-brained eccentric that she couldn’t help being, moved the boy into our home at 14 as an act of altruism, as his mom was a Vicodin addicted pharmacy tech who pulled homeless men off the street to sleep on their bloated bodies for comfort. This didn’t last long due to Elijah’s void and discomfort; however, when I turned 16, I worked at Jack ‘N’ the Box to support myself and our blossoming habits. I had forced my parents to let me fly the nest early and live in my studio apartment with Elijah. My parents had started their journey of moving me from town to town as my mom climbed the professional ladder. I ended up going to 6 high schools, to give you an idea. Early on, I wanted out. I moved to Elijah’s town, a small Washington farm town with wide open skies and flatland, a beating sun, and rolling blue hills. The town was also wine drunk, drenched in its fruit, and stained with a lackadaisical nature. Wineries sprouted throughout the land as much as their sweet onions. In summary, a blue dream drenched in red wine and sweet greens, populated with gorgeous inbreds and young brides, as well as voluptuous Mexicans, the shady field workers who intermingled and bred to make dreamy, large-eyed olive children. As rich and pleasurable as the earth can be in the early 2000s, that was Walla Walla. It was the kind of town that us kids could skateboard to the edge of civilization and back the other way, all night and day. It was the most decadent space I had soaked up in my young life, and not without its eccentric characters. People complain about these small towns; however, the most beautiful alien spawns are sprouted there, model humans who are so gorgeous they get knocked up as teenagers and live a decadent little life.
“I wish this could have been me, a young bride. But I was a tomboy and an ugly duckling, so at this point, I poured my energy into looking like the femme fatale, into embodying a boy’s desire, so my inner saturnine and jocular nature was masked. I became like a doll, and I was a natural at exaggerating my fat and curves, my pout and my clumsiness, as ugly as I was. I jumped at the chance to lose my virginity, drunk on an old couch at a “cool mom’s” house, with Elijah, and he was a gorgeous specimen to me. I had eyes like knives for the lead man. We were a pack of hillbillies— I knew who my people were, — the Death Crew and acquaintances. I was only a girlfriend. The lead man in my age group, to me, was Elijah. His beauty was that of a sheriff, cynical and somehow wise, however, boiling with criminal adolescent destruction. With a planet of a skull, sky blue eyes under dark hair. I was but 13, and he a year older, when we first met in this childish sexual union, leading up to the clumsy drunk sex. We basked with other teenage vagrants in the local “stoner park” near the town square. It was the beginning of summer, and without words that we probably didn’t have, I pressed my ass firmly in his lap pornographically, his hands on the fat of my sides, and it was like we climaxed our pheromones in broad daylight and somehow fell in love, for the first time in my life I fell in love.
“Three years later, I had forced my move back into town after the grueling long distance, and together, we shot up heroin. This was a cataclysm. It was the divorce of much the luck I’d been dealt, being brought up in a secure middle-class, NPR-listening, affluent family. I would have a lifelong opiate addiction, and I’d be set up for a bullshit life. He was highly destructive. He liked me because I gave him whatever he wanted, and he could treat me like trash, too. I was devoted and used as an obligatory masturbatory familiar.
“Enter numerous relationships with “men” in which I was used up and spit out. Never offered a fairy story, never offered a provider. The boys were turning into ghosts instead of men. There weren’t any aspirations or cultural pressure or a script for being a man in my time. Most men were finding themselves and getting lost. The committed ones were quickly enslaved and then divorced. I’ve met some of these shells, and they loved me but were already scared off by the idea of a commitment. I was burned in a fire of radical rejection, and I became a ghost myself. I turned to sexualizing women and became more of a man because of it. I turned into a boy.
“In my Maya, I stumbled on my taste for female form dolls. I could do whatever I wanted to her when I finally made my purchase. It was Maya, a creation born from narratives I had cobbled together about my sorry state; However, it was a helpful outlet nonetheless, and it turned into a relationship with myself I hadn’t yet explored. Slaves have slaves who have slaves. Everyone is someone else’s parasite or puppet to be ass played perpetuating influence like shit falling from the mouth. My slavery is not without my dominance in my tiny domain. I have a world of my own which I rule like a bastard god. I have minions like any others, but strange that mine happen to be total objects and therefore utter generations of myself. It was a demon in me that, even as a blatant slave (as opposed to slaves that are blatant masters in waking life), my instinct was to further compartmentalize and make slaves of my smaller, former, belittled selves.”