I'm a pig, and I smell bad. Mr. Smuther is my God, and that's what he says. He's always right. I kiss his butt. I suck everything down into my guts. I never shit. My body's greedy, there's nothing I can do about it. I'm bloated. I'm soft. I weigh 349 pounds. I'm fat scum. I despise myself. I'm sitting here in the pink pajama bottoms my mom gave me when I was fifteen. They still fit. I hate them, but I wear them. They're caked up around the crotch with various foods that I dripped and old sperm that I never wiped up. My sperm's sweet.
A lot of that sperm's there now because of Mr. Smuther, so I like it. I like to break it off in chunks and grind it between my fingers thinking about him. Then I feel disgusted with myself, but I like feeling that way for him. I'd like him to take a shit on my face while I lay on the sidewalk and people crowded around and laughed. He'd point down at my face and tell them how I deserved it, and they'd laugh again in agreement with him. I'd feel good, I like to feel good. I like to touch myself, especially when I pretend I'm someone else.
Sometimes in a restaurant I lose myself, I forget I exist. I sneak my hand up under my shirt and rub it, along the hair that collects around my bellybutton. The hair is soft, like the hair on a baby's head. I get hot and I can smell myself. I'm being smothered in my own armpit, then I c*m, but I don't feel anything. I discover a puddle of sperm in my crotch. I hurry and pay, then I leave, afraid they'll notice.
Jump in the discussion.
No email address required.
I'm going to be the dairy farmer producing the milk for the lattes, and after a hard week of 18 hour days, slowly realising that some members of society are more valuable than others, I'm going to eat the anxiety-riddled r-slurred baristas and tarot readers and hand their carcuses to the pink-haired
in the crafting tipi and force him to turn their hides into whips to create an actual labour force out of the rest.
Jump in the discussion.
No email address required.
We prefer to let the cows produce it, but don't think we don't appreciate the offer!
Jump in the discussion.
No email address required.
More options
Context
More options
Context