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Vir·gin / vur‐jin/

1 a person who has never had sexual intercourse. 2 without experience of; not previously exposed to. 3 the mother of jesus; the virgin mary. 4 (of a metal) made directly from ore by smelting, rather than from scrap.

A Novel by


Virgins Don’t Skydive

Copyright Š 2007 Ritchie/Geiger

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-300-47940-6

Printed in the United States of America

All characters appearing in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Except for John, who is very real, and has really, really nice fucking hair.

This document is to be read while viewing both pages side by side. Although the narrative may align from time to time, it is coincidental and the reader is encouraged to read left or right pages independently.


Jack John Penelope


. I remember my first victim. The second and fourth blend together sometimes, and once you hit the double-digits; well, you can say goodbye to delineation. All those faces, the misconstrued connections and glinting glances of connection we share, all seem to bleed together in the nether of memory. Their features and distorted reactions become an amalgam of voracious sensation. But your first – You always remember your first. Your first date, your first kiss, your first rollercoaster or airplane ride, the first time you heard that paradigm-shifting song that reached deep into your heart and changed you forever. The first time a book touched you and all you wanted was to make it stop. The first moment that you realized you’re more intelligent than your peers; that you are destined to leave a mark on this Blue spit of a world. You remember the details, gory, embarrassing, tragic and lustful. They are forever yours. The others split sputter fracture and fade away into Blonde-ishBrown, crooked nose or was she wearing glasses? I remember the flicker of iridescent skirts, designer jeans and muffled screams; scattered torrents of memory. I swear she was wearing something plaid. Or was it something plain? They melt together forming tactile impressions of the overall feel. You attempt to categorize, hoping to keep them separate, but alas, they all fall. Through them all there is almost always something they have in common; the one thing that stitches them together. It’s late. The city’s rhythm fits my strange mood. Putrid gases rise from poorly kept manhole covers. The oily surface of the asphalt reflects a distorted mirror image of the skyline; a funhouse perspective of sodium light and foreboding shadow. The smudged images shift in and out of focus - the negative space dancing with the positive in a symphony of




I wake up. I am not well. The woe is rising and grinding. Skillfully gnawing on my moist inner regions of sustenance. I can hear the chomping, sucking, lip smacking, greasy mastication as it feeds. I need some release. They told me that they were both too tired to come out tonight. Fuck ‘em. They’re probably together. Rubbing my broken face in the pain of it only makes the gash pound harder and harder. I’d be more upset at them, but I know that the odds of Penny and I connecting at this point are virtually nil and my affliction has flared up again, mauling my groin and marring my mind. I see Blue. Red hot Azure flowing from my crotch to the mana surrounding fem-kind. I need a fix. I’m really starting to run low and I need a recharge. Need to connect for just a minute. I need to sip-suck the bite from one. Now. I go to a club I’d hooked up in before. I notice a few girls hanging around the bar. As I scan for one that will take I trace my fingers over the delivery, I realize that in one way or small of her back inhaling another, I’ve been with them all before. the thin fuzz that resides, Every one of them. Fuck. This is becoming teasing and pleasing and I more and more of a bad habit of mine. I lock it away. I lock it back didn’t remember any of their names and in my mind where I can by the smell of the air around them, I knew access it any time I need it. that my presence would only cause more frustration on my quest and decided to leave after just one drink. I get in my car and jerk off. No help. I try to think through the din from my coiled Verge. I suppose I could call some old friends. Someone that could help me out in my time of need. Someone with a little electricity. I get out my phone and start dialing. No one was home – or avoiding my calls. Damn. The fire is starting to become something of an actual pain. I feel the presence of that Something Else behind me, but know if I react it’ll become all the worse. Feeling my other starting to come out, I realize that my issue is more pressing than I realized. I need to fuck something. Now.


broken glass. The random sounds resonate through the open cavity of this place; recalls an orchestra fluttering to life in muted random plucks before attention. I pause briefly to observe the warning of a little Red hand; flashing reverently; insisting I obey. I give it a smirk and cross the street without looking both ways, because at this hour, I know it is safe – safe enough anyways. A closed-up pawn shop display window is lit by neon signs and flickering Cathode-Ray-Tubes, distorted VHF channels shrieking fuzzy images of infomercials; promising to make you rich, thin, and happy; without any effort and only “four easy payments of $49.99!” Whatever. A two hundred dollar price tag hangs from the neck of an Ibanez acoustic guitar. Someone used to make music with that. Below the guitar is a small wire-basket filled with car parts and power tools, a private history of their past ownership embedded in the dirt of ancient grease, now for sale: That stuff that makes you… you. I imagine how my few material possessions might look in this window, what prices would hang from their necks. My entire life might rack up a few hundred dollars. This revelation brings a grin to my face, especially after the markup. My life, a seven percent profit margin. Not that anyone would purchase anything, what with Eric Estrada selling swampland in Texas, Suzanne Summers selling a weight-loss plan, and Tony Robbins selling attitude. My life is obviously not marketable, not too kitsch or trendy enough to sell. I shove my hands into my hip pockets and decide to head north. Streetlights, evenly spaced, shrink off into the distance. Look left. Look right. Streetlights. Buildings. Offices, apartments, hospitals, and a Starbucks every fifteen feet or so. The air is thick with the night. Humidity high, a corona wrapped around even the slightest illumination. I can smell the streets, the garbage, the pollution, stray cats and dogs; their dander is all a part of the atmosphere. Somewhere distant a train is rolling across Ritchie/Geiger


My brain sparks and it hits me. A whore. I can always get a whore. I don’t normally do whores, but this is an emergency and I can put aside my philosophy on the subject for an hour. My problem with whores isn’t that I have to pay for sex, or that I’m afraid of catching some virus or bacteria that will ultimately result in my cock turning Black and eating me from the asshole out; it’s simply that they are not real people. They are some sort of facsimile of a person. A carbon copy of the person they once were. They used to have a soul, a beating pumping circulatory system that loved some boy back home, but now, they are fucked and Fucked and the heart that once resided in the cradle protected by supple curved ribs now holds a bosom of empty cold Grey mass. A clump of wet mud wrapped within a clockwork skeleton. Nothing but wires and chemicals. They exist as a means to an end and they can’t ever get out. Once they’ve been chewed up and spat out into the gutter of life, they are no good. They are not the quality that I require. That’s why I get two. The seemingly infinitesimal amount of spirit that is stirred by a cock entering and massaging the primitive nerve endings within, forces some voltage through their conduits and they come alive for a few seconds. That few seconds is exactly what I need. And a double shot will be even better. Actually, it is a necessity right now. I head to Chinatown. There’s a place a buddy of mine recommended, but I don’t think I can find it on my own. Might have to do some drinking and get a lay of the land. I find a part of town that speaks to me and park on the street and start to walk. Chinatown always smells the same. That herb laden, ducks hanging Whispers shuffling through in the windows of the trite stores and my foreground like little restaurants, alleys smeared with garbage teasing thieves. Waiting and a/c units. I kind of like it. It feels organic. for a kill. She dances like a Smells like the history that their culture has knife, balanced on point, and ours lacks. It does get old after awhile, wavering, falling, piercing. but I never get to the point of “after awhile” down here.


the tracks, each pounding impact resonating off the sides of buildings. Spotted windows are lit. People are warm and safe inside, catching the last few minutes of Jay Leno, CNN, or South Park. Their trite entertainment, suitable enough to lull them off to a dream. How sweet. I woke up from another nightmare. Unable to recall the exact context, I am left with the slightest impression; vivid strokes of color gnawing at their canvas, living art born from toxic paint that has percolated into my unconscious. I ripped myself out of that horrible twilight; covered in sweat, wheezing large streams of stale air into my dry mouth, my heart pounding like Verdi Percussion. I cannot help but wonder if there may very well be (although undocumented) neurological impact from my long term exposure to non-animal tested cheap pigments. In any event, I can’t go back to sleep. Sometimes I try to extract the images from the nightmares, sifting through the particulars that inevitably swim away and become silage for some imaginary memory; a void that’s feeding on my psyche. I swirl a glass of Scotch and debate the legless, the eyeless, and the cold Grey flat walls of it. The precision, horrific and mechanical, like an internal-combustion motor comprised of synapses firing uncontrolled. Sometimes this feeling withdrawals, leaving me with an impression of clammy parasitic musings; slipping, crawling down the back of my neck, its slimy trail leaving behind a thin film of residual authenticity. I can never quite tell which is which is which when I wake. So I walk. I walk alone, absorbing as much distraction as latenight streets can provide. Feeling deprived and aimless, I am hoping to be confronted, wrecked, mugged, violated, arrested, or maybe just fight something; anything to pass the time. Give me a story to tell the next day. At least then tonight would have more meaning, more definition than just a bad dream or the onset of a nasty bout of insomnia. I continue north on my expedition without a destination, magnetic poles and grid mapped structures, celestial navigation, still crossing each Ritchie/Geiger


I spot a bar with a neon PBR sign and decide to give it a whirl. The outside is brick and the door is heavy Black lacquered oak. It looks like an Irish Pub. Confused, I open the door and enter. Inside is brick walls and typical Ire’-barrel tables, but, there are Chinese paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling and those large mirrors with Kanji characters on them. It looks like it used to be an Irish Pub, and not willing to take the time to toss the old patina, they just added a bunch of Asian décor. I sit at the bar and order a Triple-Vodka and Red Bull. The bartender doesn’t even bat an eyelash and slips away to make my poison. I notice a picture of Chairman Mao over the cash register. That’s fucking funny. She returns with my drink and I order another immediately. Tom and Jerry in Chinese was playing on a little TV over the bar. I tried to follow it, but my Mandarin is really rusty. I finish a quad of drinks and am barely there. I follow with a few shots of Jack to goad my beating rhythm into submission, but it’s barely working. I figure I’m not going to get any more drunk and throw a hundred on the bar and leave. Walking down the street looking, I see a cab and hail. He stops and I get in. I ask him if there’s anywhere I can find a girl for a quick date and his face lights up. You want Boom-Boom? I give you good place for Boom-Boom. Good clean Korean girls. Nice place. You want me take you there? Yes. I ask him to hurry because I’m starting to sweat ache from my pores and he doesn’t understand. I begin talking about nothing, and rhetoric spills from my mouth. I talk about physics and gestalt. I talk about color and prose and Derrida and film. He doesn’t give a shit and I just wanted to see what he’d do. Whatever. He stops in front of a strip of shops and points up the stairs between a grocery and some storefront that I couldn’t read. I pay him and exit.


street without hesitation. I see a convenience store. I pass it by. I see a small electronics and hobby shop. I pass it by. Butcher shops, delis, newsstands, locksmiths, clothing stores and laundromats. At this hour everything is distorted to look like everything else, skyscrapers and garbage bins, nothing is to scale. I hear the reverberating: Citchunka-Chunk-Citchunka-Chunk of yet another far-off train, as it skips and impacts on metal rails, until it passes by. I look down the alleys and study the tiny diorama representation of garbage cans and dumpsters; a trash army lined up against the slimecovered sides of the gigantic buildings complete with miniature doors leading to those spaces where people are not meant to go. Those corridors of nothingness remain a target for violence and unsolved kink. I decide to take a look. I enter into the ever-shrinking alley; fire escapes lifting off into the vast distance above my head, up higher and higher, so high that I could walk up into the night itself and examine the distortion of the oil and muck that lubricates the passage. I imagine this as a huge living beast. Its arteries filled with putrification and liquid nothingness, expelling bums, street criminals and whores through its bowels. I hear the sound of feet shuffling behind me and my heart begins to race, adrenaline screaming through my bloodstream. I refuse to look back and identify my predator, instead choosing to walk even faster, through the veins and arteries of the great alleyway to the other side and as I round the corner the sounds of foot steps become more and more rapid - exceeding my pace, getting closer and closer‌ But my fantasy is dashed, like my cigarette butt and the streets are unpopulated, completely devoid of life or meaning. I haven’t seen a moving vehicle in hours, only hearing their occasional scream as they run down adjacent streets. The homeless have shelter, the junkies are Ritchie/Geiger


Inhale. Exhale. Ascend the stairs. At the top is a guy who begins bargaining with me before I even speak. All grease and teeth. Sweaty. Like Vaseline on a frying pan.

Plume of smoke as she whispers into my ear. Broken promises and broken glass.

His broken English and brisk attitude begins to get offensive, attempting to choke it back, I see the tail walking around behind him and my cock begins to take control of my anger. I negotiate something with him and I get shuffled into a small room with a TV and a wrap around couch. I get a pitcher of Beer I didn’t think I ordered and ask him for three shots of Jack. I don’t think he understood. The door closes and I’m alone. .I think this is a “buy me” bar. Yeah, probably. You think we’re going to have to get a hotel when they come in? Yeah. I don’t think they have private rooms here. You’re probably right. You have enough cash? Yup. Plenty. Cool. Let’s do this. Yeah. Fuck it. The door cautiously swings open and six girls walk in. All young. Small. Slutty. Innocent. Used. Broken. Blue. They sit. One puts on the TV, which is really just a glorified juke-box and the music starts up and they pour me a glass of Beer and I try and talk to them but they don’t speak much English and by not much English I mean I got where they were from – Korea – and their names – I have no idea – and that’s it. My shots get delivered and I silently applaud the service. I was pretty much convinced that they weren’t coming. To celebrate, I slam my shots, one – two – three and start to decide which girls I want. The manager (?) sticks her head in every-so-often and assures me that if I don’t like one of them, I can send her out and get another. I send out Used and get Marred. Oh well – I think. They begin massaging my cock and I start to harden. I’m trying my best to be in the moment, but my mind invariably


unconscious and buried, even the pimps and their hookers have decided to call it a night. I take out a pack of Lucky Strikes and carefully extract another cigarette. I inhale deeply as I light it, but find no satisfaction. I see the familiar Viridian marquee of the Stadium Irish Pub, and my thirst for nighttime alcohol grows. I know the owner and I could probably get a drink for free tonight. At least I could have the fuzz of a Scotch to aid me in my wanderings this evening. Imagine my disillusionment as I get closer to the building and realize that the shutters are down, windows barred and lights extinguished. They closed early tonight. The bar manager probably received too many noise complaints again. Typical. I haven’t called it a night, an evening, or even the end of the day, not anything close to it; I am close to nothing, and the nothing I see is breathtaking. I exhale a plume of White and Cerulean smoke and watch as it dances and twirls against a smooth night sky. Darker than Charcoal or Arsenic, Obsidian flint without a reflection. Overwhelmed by the realization that there is no darker shade; a not-my-own feeling takes over, locking my upward gaze, forcing my perception deeper into a starless sky’s suffocating perfection. The void above has no bounds, no shape and no rules. It exists apart and between the dust beneath my shoes and the stars that lie beyond. I imagine myself oscillating with the nothing, vibrating at that resonance of nill and null; losing the molecules and proteins, atoms and electrons that bind together within. The strong and the weak; electromechanical bonds separated by the abyss, gravity giving way as I’m split into the nuclear nothing rising and rising – into the mouth of it. I am alone. Or maybe not? I see a Sepia form on the corner. A trick of light and shadow? Another vision of my own making? No. A woman in a raincoat stands on the corner. Patiently standing. But why? Is she a prostitute? Possibly. If so, she is not dressed appropriately. Drugs? She looks too conservative to be a dealer. Innumerable speculations continue to scream Ritchie/Geiger


wanders to Penny. I think about her hair and neck. Her jaw and lips. Her slicing eyes. That does the trick. Blood flows into my tool. .You better not let what happened last time happen again. Focus. Ok. I’ll do my best. You better. I don’t want to deal with that again. Fine, calm down and let’s have some fun. The girls are talking to themselves and I think they are making the decision on who I’m taking exclusive of my opinion. On the other hand, they could be talking about how this White devil is encouraging human trafficking and how it is one of the true blights on human society, but I highly doubt it. I finish my Beer and have a pitcher minus one glass left and the gash is starting to call again. Throbbing, pounding, hammer on anvil ringing. Bang, bang, bang. I need it. I fucking need it. Red on Red. Plasma fade to Violet. Now. I ask them how this is going to work and they tell me that it’s a hundred bucks in their version of broken English. I ask for two and they say twohundred. Fuckin’ a right. Sold. I snap my fingers Bleating keys of a and make a whirling motion with my hand and piano as she stares into they get up. I ask which ones want to fuck me me, looking for a soul and I get four eyes. I open the door to the room that died so long ago. and Mama-San hurries over and asks if everything is ok and I say I’m leaving with these two and she assures me my room will be available until 2 am. Cool. But I won’t be back. We leave the bar and head down the grimy block, filled to the edges of vision with old signs, trinket junk shops and neon lights advertising local products inherent in their microcosm. The girls walk slightly ahead of me talking to themselves and I have the off hand thought that they could be leading me into the jaws of anything at all. But I don’t care. Everything smells of oil. Smeared poultry bi-products and mold. We turn a random corner and a hotel presents itself. We walk in and they set up the room as I stand by feeling out of place staring at the men


through my convoluted cortex, each iteration failing to match certain criteria. Only one observation survives my scrutiny; she is waiting. There is absolutely no traffic, but she is waiting for the little Red hand to flicker into a White silhouette of a walking man so she can cross. Is she blind? Does she need that kind of security? A buzzer which gives her the reassurance that she has the right of way? She is not in the company of a seeing-eye dog, or one of those thin canes with a Red tip. Perhaps she is completely new to the ways of city life; habitual obedience so engrained into her personality that she is incapable of not following the rules. Whatever the case may be; she abandons her own judgment, content to surrender her free will to the city’s ordinances and infrastructure rather than decide for herself when it is safe to cross. She is truly one of god’s sheep. Not an individual living being, but merely a component of the greater flock. All faith and no reason. This thought makes it easier for me to act. Something takes control, I pluck the cigarette from my lips and hurl it into the concrete, a brilliant splash of Amber scatters and fades until nothing but smoke and ash remain; and my freewill dissolving with it. It’s out of my hands now… Poor girl. Unhurriedly I approach, time seems to stand still, and my feet tap lightly on the concrete with each forced step. 1-2-3, 1-2-3… I think to myself. Consistency is the most menacing sign of a threat. This one will not get away from me. Getting closer now, much much closer; with each step I study her form, distance shrinks, greater acuity gained, and clarity improves. 1-2-3, 1-2-3… Studying her profile and facial features does not excite me at all; this one is not as beautiful up close as I had hoped. At least I don’t have to worry about becoming too attached. This should be quick and easy. I feel a slight twitch burning through my limbs as adrenalineRitchie/Geiger


standing in the lobby, looking like they want nothing in the world more than to be gangsters, but read that they don’t have the brass for anything other than hanging out while they fantasize about it and I have to pay twenty bucks for an hour. Fuck it. We get the key and get in the elevator and head up to room 101. I ended up with Slutty and Innocent – I think. They seemed excited and I was ready to go. They set their shit down and gave the universal *Get naked sign and I obliged. I sat on the bed as they eyed my piece and I watched them get undressed – their Saffron skin glinting in the glitter of the lamp light, little dark fuck machines, all mechanics now – auto pilot engaged – and they take me into the shower. We get in and they rub and soap me up, and I them, over their small frames and sharp hips, and as they look at me in that automated way, their photocell eyes and servo joints buzzing, my strain starts to flare. They both seemed reasonably attractive, but like most Asians, looked like they got hit in the face with a bag of hammers at birth. .Oh well. We don’t have to look at them. We get sufficiently clean and they take me back to the bed. They start stroking and sucking, sans condom, which I am past the point of caring, and suckle my nipples and bite and one of them licks my asshole a little and I don’t mind it and they begin to give life to me and I begin to breathe them in, starting to fill my gaping hole. Recharging. One grabs a condom and rolls it on. It is fucking tight. Maybe for Asians? She puts another on over it. .Man, we’re never going to cum. .I hope these little things are ready for this. I go to work on Innocent as Slutty starts making out with her – hands glinting over her tiny frame, in and out between her own legs, I am mindful of my strokes, for I have a nasty habit of breaking condoms. And of course, the only bodies I use condoms with are whores, so I’m more than cautious not to catch that nasty Black-cock-asshole-rot I imagine receiving.


soaked nerve clusters tremble. I close my hands into tight balled fists. Practiced reflex, my mouth waters lightly, saliva secretions, achieving a heightened sense of smell and taste. I begin controlling my breathing with greater deliberation. I breathe her in and smell something floral. I need to get a grip. Stay calm. She doesn’t excite me, only the thought of what I will do to her excites me. My body subtlety shifts form, as random muscle groups sporadically tense and I force them to relax. Tense. Relax. Tense. Relax. 1-2-3, 1-2-3… Your gait should remain casual. 1-2-3, 1-2-3… It’s three in the morning or so, there’s no need to be in a rush. 1-2-3, 1-2-3… You’ll get there soon enough; just walk a little bit faster so you can get a better look. 1-2-3, 1-2-3… She isn’t going anywhere. 1-2-3, 1-2-3… The adjacent traffic light transitions from Green to Yellow. 1-2-3, 1-2-3… Soon the walking man will appear, and I need to cover the distance first. 1-2-3… Just don’t look too excited. She doesn’t hear me coming. 1-2-3, 1-2-3… Is she deaf? Am I stalking Helen Keller at three in the fucking morning? A few more steps and we will be walking side by side. I wonder if I should hold her hand and help her cross. No. That would be rude. I draw in a deep breath as though I am about to speak, but there is nothing left for me to say, no words to be exchanged. Only aggression. I will communicate to her in the most primitive of methods, and she will identify with horrific lucidity all I ever sought to express. With each strike a simple message, syntax crafted and formed inside each blow, she will hear those words which are not verbal. Words that have no tone in voice or sound, only motion; she will feel what I say.



Here’s a fact: Asian’s can’t take a dick. They simply can’t. I don’t know if it’s a physiological thing or what. But they scream almost to the point of bloody hell and I don’t really get off on it too much. I don’t fuck to hurt. Sometimes I have the domination fuck, but never rape. That is perhaps the lowest form of action a person can exercise. I can’t fucking stand rapists, and when they scream it makes me feel like one and my cock droops. Innocent isn’t half bad, but is still tight as hell and I can only get half my dick in her. Pushing the rape visions from my head, I concentrate on the electricity being forced from the dead nerves jumping her center with my rotor and the trons begin to flow. Punching deeper and deeper – inhaling the Azure and I am just beginning to get recharged. My piston sends Cerulean waves of static through her whizzing synchros like some little beast waking up from a deep electric sleep. Wandering through a bleak The palpable motion begins to ebb from alley, so light it’s dark and her and I see Slutty is rubbing friction the only thing I can see is sweating and searching palpably with her her teeth. White on White groin towards me and I decide that I want smiling in a tangible snarl, to fuck her for a little while. I angle my it excites me and terrifies torso at an impossible vector, reaching for me simultaneously. her, dragging her to me, turning her hips towards me as I throw Innocent’s wiry little leg over me – twisting her body to the side as I pull out of her.

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She begins her stroll across the street, a perfect rhythm. 1-2-3, 1-23… I match my walk to hers. 1-2-3, 1-2-3… I can’t dance, but this feels like dancing to me. I feel connected. Finally, on this dimly lit street corner there is someone I can relate to – if just for a moment. What’s this? I come out of step, and lose the beat, frantic and untimed; she begins to walk faster, glancing over her shoulder. Does she feel my words already? She must have noticed our *ahem* connection. I once again match the pace, I still want to dance. 1-2-3, 1-2-3… I can keep up. There’s no harm in this right? Just two people strolling down the vacant streets at night. Even if she is alarmed, wouldn’t it be extraordinarily rude on her part to interject? I could dance all night – with her. 1-2-3, 1-2-3… I see another intersection and my face lights up with glee. The light is Red! The color of passion, violence, blood, heat, and anger. Afraid or not, I know already that she will stop. Push the button and wait…1-2-3, 1-2-3… She glances again. My heart races, I imagine her heart is racing too. Our beats match, as our steps match. 1-2, 1-2… She stops. 1-2, 1-2… She pushes the button 1-2, 1-2… and waits. The silence is deafening as I come to a stop; standing next to her, I glance. Just a glance. I just wanted to take her in, hold her image fresh in my mind, after all, I should cherish this moment, I am the last person who will ever see her alive. A half-smile washes across my face. I say “hello.” She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. Part of her must know what I am going to do. Bitch. Why didn’t I bring a gun? I don’t even own a gun. A knife? Would I really want to use a knife? Stab this woman to death here, on this well lit street corner? No. That would be rude. Ritchie/Geiger







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<:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: LIKE A FUCKING GEISER FROM HER. It hoses over my legs, on my stomach, my chest – all over the bed. Fuck. I stop time. Look at the situation. I gather myself. .Ok – what just happened? Did you pop her? Did you get a virgin hooker? A White clad Puritan of the night? Hahaha. .You better clean yourself up. Agreed. Time rolls back up and on like an 8mm projector. Snuff film pro/gress. Innocent freaks out at the sight of it all, then – Pause. BSOD. Slutty looks at the mess and barely flinches. Lithium ions in overcurrent as she continues to oscillate her crotch and I think – Perhaps she’s seen this before. She finishes and lies on the bed and I hit the shower and wash the Amaranth from me and tear off the condoms, scrub my tool with fervor and come back to the bed. Innocent is still lying there bleeding and Slutty is looking at me quizzically, naked. I still haven’t gotten off and I decide I’m going to before this night is over. I have not yet had my fill.


Maybe I would just use a knife to threaten her. Make demands. Insist that she follow me into a dark alley where no one is watching. My head drops and I cackle under my breath, just a nervous little laugh really, this all feels out of place, and ridiculous. What can I say, it’s my first time, everyone is nervous their first time right? Critically I lament my every impulse, completely lacking organization and structure again! This is all so hasty of me. I need to slow down, take my time, relax and enjoy. This is supposed to be fun. You don’t really want to plan something like this, do you? Maybe a hammer? Or the kind of lighter those junkies use with the jet flame. Something playful, but intimidating; like a set of handcuffs. Nope. All I have is a cell phone, half a pack of Lucky Strikes, a not-sojunkie run of the mill Bic lighter and a small key ring. How am I going to do this? Simple. She is a girl, I am a man. I am bigger, stronger, and have about an eight-inch reach advantage. I can physically overpower her. Choke her. Punch her. Give her a goddamned Purple-nurple followed by an Indian burn and a Wet-Wily. This will be like recess, except with homicide detectives. I don’t know her, and I don’t need to. Even if she screams, the odds are in my favor that no one will do anything to stop this. Just another tragedy staining the pavement of an alley. A history full of random violence preserved in every hair follicle, drop of blood, tooth, and broken nail. I can do this. Just grab her by the throat and drag her into a secluded place where I can do whatever I please. Absolute power derived from horrific aggression; her body, discovered days later - twisted, broken, and decomposing amongst the refuse of a municipal dumpster. Sirens will dance along brick walls while the coroner and homicide detectives compare notes, x-rays and DNA collected with great care and diligence, Ritchie/Geiger


I walk over to the bed and sit Slutty up. I stick my half hard cock into her mouth and she grabs me from the deep plunge and sucks and kisses the head till my rod returns. She reaches into her purse and reveals only one Chug, chug, grind – clickity condom. Her last. I want to get off so clack clickity clack the tracks badly at this point, I don’t care to double go tick tick tack growling in bag it. She tears open the pouch and intensity a spark and the fuse begins to put it on. She gets part of the head in it but can’t get it to roll down. She is lit, hiss hiss pop. Look out. struggles and I’m starting to get agitated and I throw her hands off and try myself and discover she had it on backwards. I flip it and roll it half way down my cock. Fucking Asian condoms. I debate kissing her, and don’t, so I rub my cock on her slit and plow in. This one is better than Innocent and I actually get most of my dick in before bottoming out. As I fuck her, she doesn’t seem interested at all. She doesn’t make a single sound and I start fucking harder and have to think about Penny to maintain my hard on. .I imagine her programming. What made this thing the way it is, but it makes no difference. Her systems on standby - tightly gripped by a cocaine hibernation or some narcotics cocktail, the particulars of chemistry seem completely irrelevant. I try to shut it off, but that mechanical upstroke motor just keeps pumping away, up and down, up and down, diesel glowplugs still drawing current as synapses fire. She’s gone someplace far away, maybe to a small fishing village, or a refugee camp, or perhaps someplace worse. Slutty must have died a long time ago. I look at Innocent and she is still lying on the bed in shock and I’m almost rocking her off of it with my motion. I pull out and no blood spews and I feel better and check the condom status and see it’s still intact and go to work from behind. Her ass is almost perfect and I’m starting to get there with each shallow thrust – electrons and Ohm’s Law doing work on the electrochemical reaction I require as



a list of suspects formulated, hot coffee, local television news vans, and massive amounts of paperwork; files scattered across the desk of a jaded police detective. I draw in a deep breath, summoning with it, every preserved hurtful emotion. I bite down hard on my bottom lip as I recall in brutal detail every single action that has led me to this point. My feet dig deep into the pavement and I weigh thousands of pounds. Anger spews out of me like dark volcanic ash, spiraling violent clouds, blackening the streetlights, covering everything in shadow. Obscuring what little humanity remains. My eyes lock onto a deeper shade of Black. The Black of her motionless silhouette. My arms tighten, shock and jolt with anticipation as I gather myself, now fully prepared for the final death blow. My feet grow roots that dig deep into the earth, my reach is without limit. I remain standing in the exact same spot; she is on the other side of the street. My arm lunges out with deadly force, and unrewarding grabs return with empty hands. Because I am not without limits, because I have not transformed into anything at all. Just me. Just the same as I always am. I’ve gotten ahead of myself. All this mental masturbation; standing here leering and drooling at the thought of murder has been unproductive, and she is now safe. I’m not. “Have a good night!” I shout across the vacant street to her bewilderment, waving my hand in a slightly faggy manner. Overflowing with frustration, I light another cigarette and tensely blow smoke with rapid drags, never inhaling. Appalled and confused by my indecisiveness; I walk down empty streets. It will be hours before the city trains are running again, and I am miles from my studio. I have absolutely no doubt that Blessed Sacrament has already closed its doors, and Donna would be pissed if I called her at this hour. I can’t kill. I can’t fuck. I missed Leno again. I should buy a TV. Ritchie/Geiger


I pull out my cock with a Pink ring around the middle of my shaft. The fucking condom broke. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Shower. Repeat. She looks at me with a *what do you want us to do now? I look around and my mind starts firing. No more condoms = no more sex. I’m not pushing my luck. .Ok, if we can’t fuck these girls, we have to improvise. I don’t think they could suck it off with the shite head they gave, so let’s get a tug. Now where’s some lube? I scan the room. Nothing. I look in the bathroom and there are no shampoo bottles, no conditioner, no hand lotion, no shaving cream and then I remember the shower. There was a bathroom style soap dispenser in the stall and that should suffice. I tear open the door ram my hand into the plunger one – two – three and return to Slutty sitting on the bed, still naked and Innocent still motionless next to her, blood all over the bed. I grab Slutty’s hand and slap the soap into it in a modified five and take her hand, sit down and jam it on my cock and give her the jerking motion and she understands and goes to work. She begins to kiss my chest and suck my nipples and kiss my neck and I’m trying so fucking hard to get off and I have to constantly reposition her hand work to get it right and I concentrate so hard on the images of Penny in my head and I fucking finally cum. I pay her, leave, and spend two hours trying to find my car. I feel the crack and pop of blood vessels, Copper and Crimson, as my nose begins to bleed. I need a drink.

The boy realizes he’s in a house he is not familiar with. He looks around as though feel the ache or sting of stress. He feels like he is supposed to be here; he just forgot thinks. As the initial discomfort subsides he starts to walk around. Exploring. He carefully as to not alert the unknown residents he’s already started to make up. smells like his great-grandmother. Mediciny. Musky. Like death. There are old a slight layer of dust. They must be too old to clean every day how slightly old room is well lit. chores of their old or handle the the How they hold unnecessarily so, since it is on to life so tightly with the little sparsely decorated with flat grey time they have left. A main floor of walls. a single metal folding the house. He follows crystal handle chair resides in the center. the and a skeleton key discovers that chair, also grey in color has it is actually under look large been placed underneath what i and he decides that K n o w i n g can only assume is a sweat-lamp. that all sorts of the boy just like the ones i have seen returns to the door, in all those old mobster movies. and slowly and deliberately slightly disappointed that he couldn’t enter the room, but believes that he could he looks deliberately enough. He continues to explore. The kitchen is well kept. not hungry. He carefully opens the cupboards. Not every one. Just the ones that people stash their secrets. He’s most interested in the secrets this mystery house windows. It’s nice outside. He debates going out on the porch to investigate reminds himself he i am the only thing here still does not know where creaking of the that seems out of place. front door will be too loud be alerted to his the only thing with any presence. He continues to The boy approaches color. the door and has to get on other side. The porch seems ordinary its lonesome where i know that i have been a swing or a rocking chair used. It looked here before, but i can’t comfortable, like one that an obviously remember when. indoor piece of furniture toes beats him and the boy succumbs to flat i am alone. another door on the wall of the kitchen. this must be the basement or storm cellar or wine cellar door. Casting the thought unbarred. He approaches the door, grips the faux crystal handle, taking time to imparts his will that the door not be locked. Bracing his hands on the door jam He is tingling with excitement at the prospect

he’d been transported there. He thinks that maybe he was kidnapped, but doesn’t how he got here and has no idea where here is. He’ll remember soon enough he likes to explore. The house is old. It creaks, though he’s very good about stepping They are an elderly couple, he decides. They are asleep somewhere in the house. It people things lying about. A room that has plastic coverings over everything and people are, he decides. These are over-slightly-old people and they can’t remember lives. The boy doesn’t like old people. He doesn’t like the way they hold on to him. when they are so close to death. It makes him nervous as to what they might do painting of a woman hangs on the east wall of a hallway that wraps around the the circular path and sees a door. The door catches his attention. It has a faux lock on it. Not wanting surrender his anonymity, he walks around the door and the staircase as it ascends into the unexplored upper floors of the house. It doesn’t it must be a closet its features so closely parallel of some sort. interesting things my memory that i cannot help but reside in closets, grips the faux picture myself sitting in the crystal handle gives it a turn. chair, while some hard-boiled Locked. He is possibly find the detective punches my already key somewhere if He doesn’t open battered face, demanding i the fridge. He’s he imagines are answer his every question. hidden. Where holds. Cautiously, grainy black and white film looks out the the foliage more would be adequate for capturing carefully. He he is. He decides the picture of this place too. the inevitable and the occupants almost everything is grey. of the house will peruse its internals. Through the kitchen, there is a door leading to the outside. tip toes to see out the glass window half way up the portal and sees a porch on the enough, though strangely there is a huge leather chair slightly askew sitting by should be. The surface through strained calves looked supple, oiled, and well could sit and read for hours wrapped in its dead cow skin folds. He thinks it odd would be nestled like an apostrophe ‘J’ outside on a porch. The strain of being on feet and can investigate no further. As he turns his attention around; he sees yet Tucked away around in a corner, he swears he previously probed. He decides that of strangely appearing thresholds aside the boy hopes that this one will be notice that is has an identical skeleton key lock on it. He breathes an oath that and handle he gives the portal a slight tug and the door pops quietly open. Perfect. of the cellar opening to the unknown.

Virgins Don't Skydive  

Jonathan and Jack share the same obsession: Penelope. Fueled by lustful ambition, artistic largess, rage, alcohol, and violence, this fatefu...

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