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.
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The commune when not enough passion was sparked to keep the corn fields alive.
Just kidding, I would dedicate my career to the art of wistful thinking and enriching my chakras through feeling the warm summer breeze blow through my luscious locks.
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