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Fucked Up College Kids File 267
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Suicide Note
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As the last flicker of life died in my wife's eyes I looked at my hands
around her neck and remembered that I was a religious man. Religion is
about love, and I loved her even as I killed her but of course she didn't
get it. If she'd gotten it maybe I wouldn't have killed her'll never know
because I agree with the group of particle physicists who say there's
really no such thing as if. The things we do are just events in a
multi-dimensional universe where everything we do here has an opposite
and equal reaction in another unseen but congruent universe. I'm not
kidding. There really is a large group of reputable physicists whose
study of the behavior of light quanta has led them to that conclusion.
But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you? You're probably out
of the same herd of one-dimensional cows as my wife. Not that I didn't
love her.
Not that I don't love you. I love all you credit-wearing consumer units
who trek out each day to do the one meaningful act in your slot-track
lives, which is...but you don't get the reference to slot-track do you?
They were little powered cars that raced around a preconstructed track in
slots. They got their power and direction from the slots, but I'm sure
you didn't get the reference because they haven't been hot in over six
years and anything that happened more than three months ago is automatically
erased in a consumer unit's mind. Because a consumer unit's one
meaningful function is to buy, and if your buying is to continue on
schedule you have to forget that anything is supposed to last, including
wisdom, truth, faith or history.
That's why it will take most of you about a week to forget I killed my
wife. That little fact will be erased by a blizzard of sitcom stars
shining out at you from the supermarket tabloids that are your only
memorable source of information. No? What do you think is the source of
conventional wisdom? What do you remember, the fact that the latest space
shuttle is going to carry forty-three pounds of plutonium on top of a
liquid-fueled bomb that has a one in seventy-eight chance of exploding or
that Rosanne Barr has become "difficult"? The fact that forty-three
pounds of plutonium is enough to give every person on the planet lung
cancer or that the president didn't catch any fish while he was on
vacation? Not that you'll remember who Rosanne Barr or the president is
in a few years.
Remember this though, as you take your daily tabloid pill from Doctor
Rather. It's something you might even be able to recall at the end of the
evening when Cosby's sent the kids to bed for you and you're tired of
struggling through those long sentences in TV Guide. There's a darkness
that doesn't need night to come because it's there waiting behind
whatever it is you don't know you desire. And there is a witchcraft that
doesn't need a full moon because the moon always orbits full around the
dark side of any light you care to name, including television screens,
including love.
And love is what religion is all about. Did I tell you I was a religious
man? Religion: sin and redemption. That's what religion was originally
about. Sin is a word you'll never see in the tabloids unless it's a quote
from one of the wig-merchant preachers who use it as a crowbar to pry
open the poor. And I know to that to most of you redemption is a tax
refund, but originally it meant forgiveness for your sins, and better
yet, release from them.
That was the problem; I wanted forgiveness but not release because my sin
was feeling like God. Redemption would have meant giving up that feeling,
and I couldn't. God: I still capitalize his name; an affectionate
gesture. He can't help it if he inspires emulation and I can't help it if
I emulate. Can you see the bind I'm in? I still believe in God but resent
him deeply for creating me in his image. That's what the bible says, you
know. He created us in his image. So what are we supposed to do about
this potential for cheap imitation?
I mean just what the hell was I supposed to do after the first time Sella
lay facedown across the motel bed, midnight hair spread on the floor, and
said in her little tin growl, "You can do anything to me you want, anything."
That's what she said. Then she raised the short leather skirt, showing me
the straps of the garter belt as they extended up the tightly flared
white of her thighs like the tails of a lash. Then she rose to her knees
and with a soft grunt pulled the skirt to her waist. She was small and
thin, but her ass flared wide and pulsed outward like some giant white
heart. It was shocking in its solid abundance, a secret thrill that only
the favored could know. She raised it higher and as it swayed there over
her head the little growl in her voice was changed to a light shriek by
the way her face was pressed into the mattress. "Anything," she said
again. "Anything you want. You can hurt me. I like to be hurt. I like to
be humiliated. I'll do anything you say. I deserve it."
I swayed on my feet as the blood rushed from my head to my groin and back
again. I felt like I was expanding in all directions. She meant it. She
was giving me power, Godlike power. Sure. it was a cheap imitation, like
a little electric shock compared to a lightning bolt, but it was the
closest I'd ever come. I know a lot of you consumer units are thinking
you would have refused, saved by the atheism of your dead imaginations.
And maybe you would have. But that wouldn't have saved you because any of
you who've ever come but once would have asked yourselves why. Women too,
if Sella had been a man, and she could have been, if she wanted you to
think so. And the question why is the thing that puts the first hole in
the safety of your ignorance. It's the question that comes for you when
bad things happen, and they will, because I met Sella.
Through some helix of irony that now seems as fated as poisoned strands of
DNA I met her through my wife. My wife's name is, excuse me, was Marian.
She was a tall honey blonde with a face like Meryl Streep's plumper
sister and one of those big-boned Minnesota Swede bodies. You know, a
hundred and forty pounds maybe but not fat, just big through the
shoulders with cream-pie breasts and haunches instead of hips. She was
about a half-inch taller than me and very attractive in an earthbound
way. I admired her. She had intelligence and guts. As I was strangling
her, just as her face turned purple, she whacked me so hard I had a
bruise on the side of my face for a week. I don't say that to be crude,
just to illustrate one of her better qualities. If I was able I'd miss
her, but of course I'm no longer able. To miss her I'd have to imagine
she was real and people are just a collection of feelings, aren't they?
When I killed her I took those feelings which comprised the entity
named Mirian into myself. So she's just as real now as before. That's a
concept I wasn't conscious of when I met Sella in the discussion group.
Mirian was a sociology instructor at the local community college. She was
heading an adult education seminar on modern mores or some such thing and
asked me if I wanted to participate. I didn't, but she'd been carping
about me showing no interest in her career, so I agreed to sit in a few
times just to see what she was up to. We decided to keep the fact that I
was her husband a secret so it didn't inhibit the group or me.
My eyes locked onto Sella as soon as I entered the room. She was wearing
a black sheath dress with black hose that matched the crow-wing sheen of
her hair. She had a long thin face that suggested an American Indian , or
rather an Indian's idea of someone he might come across in a forbidden
part of the desert: tomahawk cheekbones and a mouth so wide it made the
rest of her face look like something it had kissed into existence. Her
nose was a bit too long and had a cruel little hook to it that matched
the one at the corner of her cunt-curl mouth. It was her eyes though that
locked onto mine and sucked my brain to climax. They were as ice gray and
hungry as those of an arctic wolf; tundra eyes reflecting the hiss of
some winter sun that lay deep-gone over the horizon.
She said nothing in the session; an attitude souffle about honesty that
was punctured every time Sella moved her eyes from my crotch to my face
and back again. She flicked them at first and then did it slower,
hungrier each time with a kind of tongue-lolling languor that made me
feel like I was being licked all over. Sometime during the middle of all
that she began showing me flashes of thigh, crossing her legs, slumping a
little in her chair so the sheath rose higher, then uncrossing her legs.
It took only a few minutes of that for me to realize from the black and
white contrast of her upper thighs that she was wearing a garter belt and
stockings. There may be a man over the age of thirty-five somewhere who
isn't aroused by a garter belt and stockings on a pair of high-flow legs,
but don't trust him because he's a liar.
When we were boys all women wore them and women is what we wanted. Girls
knew it and wore them too. I spent untold classroom hours looking for
that not-too-subtle tan-white promise I'd somehow seen in prepuberty
fever dreams. That night in my wife's classroom with Sella I was doing it
again; feeling overheated and dizzy, becoming more capable of rape by the
minute. Ten minutes before the end of class she crossed her legs one last
time, took off one high heel, and used her architecturally arched foot to
massage the back of her other leg up to the knee, down to the heel,
slowly, tongue slowly. The slight buzz of nylon against nylon sounded as
faint and plain as a zipper in a dark room. Five minutes before the end
of class I left and waited at a far turn in the hall so I could catch her
while Marian was collecting her papers.
Sella knew. I saw her wait until the rest of the class was almost to me
before she started down the hall; her breasts small enough to move free
inside the knit sheath; ram's-head nipples butting strong against rolling
black circles. She had an insect-thin waist and a swaybacked walk
propelled by an ass so mobile you could see it move from the front. The
others were already out the door when she got to me. I was going to step
in front of her but she stopped, turned, faced me with those ice-dog eyes
and said in a voice like a fingernail on my spine, "Marian is talking
about honesty with a student. She'll probably be about five minutes."
Then she looked at my crotch again and up to my eyes, emitting something
between a sigh and a groan as she did. It was that little tin shriek that
was to become so loud in the upcoming months that it was all I could hear.
I grabbed her by the upper arm and yanked her around the corner. She gave
me a little groan again but didn't resist. "Why?" I asked. "Why were you
doing that?"
She turned so that one of her breasts kissed the back of my hand. "You
mean trying to show you I wasn't wearing any panties?" she said in her
little growl.
I released her arm and leaned against the wall, attacked again by fever
dreams. She stepped forward so that the rounds of her thighs hugged my
legs. "You didn't notice," she said. "I tried to show you but you didn't
notice."
"Why?" I managed to croak. "Why are you doing this?"
She rocked a little on my leg, raising the knit dress as she did so,
bringing raw nylon in contact in contact with the jeans I was wearing.
"Because I can always spot a husband," she growl whispered close to my
ear. "You're Marian's husband, and I like husbands."
"Why?"
"Because I'm bad." She whimpered a little, a sound that made me ashamed
for her, and hard. "Because I'm bad," she said. "I'm so bad only a man
who's being bad can give me what I need."
I almost walked away but I felt the wet breath of her sentence on my
neck. "And what's that?" I asked instead.
She gave the tin growl as she rocked on my leg so hard that the dress
slipped above the top of her stocking and I felt white thigh-fever
against my leg. She leaned forward into my neck and slipped a piece of
paper into my pocket. "Anything you tell me I need," she said. "And I
mean it." Then she leaned back, looked at her watch, and said, "Five
minutes, don't forget I mean it."
She went out the door in a way that made me wish I was a door and I was
alone against the wall, dripping sweat onto my shirt, prostate fluid into
my pants.
That night in bed with Marian I was like a lion on an antelope. I wanted
to draw blood. I wanted to crack her spine. Our marriage had always
included regular sex but the method was always what magazines with douche
ads call "comfortable." Marian would lie on her back or, when she was
especially passionate, on top of me and give out a few oohs and a "that's
nice" or two then come with all the regularity and passion of the morning
newspaper.
The night I met Sella Marian sweated like a boar and grunted like a sow.
She trashed and raked me and even tried to throw me off but I'd just flip
her into a new position and drive on because my semen was boiling inside
me and I wanted to make it hurt her as much as it was hurting me. She
made birth sounds and came three times, but afterward she looked at me
from the other side of the bed like I'd suddenly grown fangs. "You
frightened me," she said in an apprehensive voice.
"You came three times," I answered in my defense.
"I didn't even know it," she said. "I was lost."
It was then that I felt the beginnings of power, the thrill of subsuming
another person into your desires, making them a seed out of which your
fulfillment grows. If she had only agreed to it things might have been
different but of course it was her fate to die rather than agree to it
just like religion tells us. You know, disobedience is sin and the wages
of sin is death. It's right there in the Bible, you could look it up but
you won't. You'll just go on reading douche magazines and believing in
"relationships" that are "comfortable."
That's what Marian wanted to do. After a bout with Godlike sex during
which she came three times and couldn't remember two of them all she
could say was that she wanted to know it when she came. Mind you, she
didn't deny she came three times but she wanted to know when, wanted to
enjoy it. She went to heaven but didn't like it because she couldn't
remember the address. She wanted low-fat no-cholesterol bite-sized safe
sex instead of pig-slop pleasure, and it killed her. Because then I knew.
I knew I had to have Sella and once I had Sella I had to have it all. If
Marian had only submitted it might have saved us both. After all, Abraham
was willing to kill his son for God. All Marian had to do was be a sex
object. Not that I think I'm God. What a cliche. I don't even want to be
God. I just want to feel like him. It's not my fault. I didn't make the
world but if I had I wouldn't have told my children they were created in
my image. I'd have let them come without knowing it just like I did
Marian. I tried to save her but she'd too many douche ads to accept dirty
love. So I had to find another way to love her. I learned that way from
Sella.
"I know what you want," she said on the phone, and told me to name the
time and place, any time and place. I did. The next day I found myself in
a room watching Sella rock the garter-whipped purity of her veinless
white ass against the darkness while begging me to hurt her. And I did. I
whipped her. I told her to stay in exactly that position while I whipped
her with my belt and every time she moved I whipped her some more. When I
saw her skin beginning to redden to the point of blood I stopped until it
passed but I told her stay in that position the whole time.She did. It
was a transcendent experience. At first I could see her whole body in all
its pornographic glory as I vented my anger at Marian on it. Sella's ass
shook with each blow, sending ripples of force up each side of her body
to her breasts and down her legs where they straightened her toes. The
more I whipped her the angrier I became at Marian for refusing to allow
me to stop of what I was now doing. Because I would never have whipped
Marian, unless she'd asked me and of course she wouldn't have asked me.
Not that I'd have wanted to. She wasn't built for it; too big, too
unsegmented. It would have been as erotic as driving a mule team.
I would have continued normal animal sex with her though, watching the
sweat splash as she flopped around the bed, but she wouldn't and that
made me mad, which sent me to Sella who received anger like an offering,
which after a while it was. Because after the first flush I got when I
realized I was actually whipping her, after the first time I'd rested so
she wouldn't mar the occasion by bleeding, I ceased to see her body at
all. Rather I ceased to see her as a body. The blackness of her dress
blended with the dark of the room and the white of her skin with the
lightness of bed and bathroom beyond until I imagined myself alone in the
room and her ass a blank page upon which I was writing a save-me note to
the world. The more I whipped the more articulate I became, the tip of my
belt landing just where I aimed and eliciting a different note in the
continuous keening wail that came from Sella but which seemed to come out
of my own screaming frustration at being locked onto two legs in a world
that is mostly air. When I became aware of Sella's noises I stopped
writing and became a musician. Every cry of rage or pleasure or fear or
want I'd ever felt in my life I was able to bring to her lips through the
instrument of my belt, and as it got more accurate and more intense there
was no remaining difference between Sella, the room, and myself. I was
creating a world through the mediums of pain and violence and I didn't
stop until she became me and I was feeling the burn in my head more
strongly than she on her skin and we were two poles of an electrical
field so strong that if anyone else had touched the belt at that moment
it would have killed them.
It was in that moment that I drew the belt aside, leapt onto the bed, and
shoved into her like a coked-up angel sent by the Almighty to cuckold
Lucifer, and the only way to cuckold Lucifer is to give his wife more of
what she wants than he does. So I used myself as a weapon. I banged
against the backs of her thighs so hard that her head drummed against the
bedboard with the doomlike thud of the slave-master's hammer on a galley
ship. I bit her and slapped her and bent her into positions that made her
nothing but an orifice with a body attached. And I used every orifice she
had, finishing with the one Lucifer likes the most; the one that makes
the cunt seem like a debutante at her coming out party, the one on the
side of town where the lights never shine, the gateway to the gardens of
perversion where the black roses of hubris grow out of wells of dark
satin. And as I did it I could read her spine from the inside and it
said, "Yours is the thing that writes the limits of my life. Yours is the
alchemy that changes my pain to bone and my bone to come." And I did it
harder and her wail swallowed itself into a muted roaring grunt so I
could feel it sitting on the end of my spear, and as I came I could see
the limits of my life expand like the speed and reach of the universe. I
could squeeze air and feel it run between my fingers. I could bite
minutes and feel the seconds run down my chin. Afterward I couldn't
remember coming. I was lost.
I don't remember how many times I saw Sella after that, only that they
were never enough and the times between felt like a flourescent dream
from which I wanted to awake. Each time I entered a shady motel room with
Sella felt like balm to a burn wound and each time I came out I felt like
I'd been singed all over and needed the balm worse than before.
Whatever I did she wanted more. I tied her hair to the top of the bed,
wrapped a rope around her feet, and pulled her taut using the bathroom
doorknob as a pulley. She spread her arms and called it flying through
hell, and asked for more. I had her suck me until her neck was stiff and
her jaws were sore and when I needed time to keep from coming I made her
use that time to suck everything else in the room; table legs, doorknobs,
bathtub fixtures, her own toes. She called it tasting exotic fruit and
asked for more. I used appliances on her; an electric shoe shine machine,
a slow-turning power drill with a sponge bottle washer attached, a wire
attached to a tape-player's LED flashers so that small shocks were
delivered in time to the music. She called it lips of fire and came until
she cried, and asked for more.
And me? My days were like slow-flying mud and my time with Marian like a
sensory deprivation tank without the hallucinations. I began taking time
off from work to meet Sella. I bought leather outfits from Frederick's,
whips and harnesses from feed stores, new appliances from hardware
stores, liquor by the case, and drugs by the kilo because they all
enhanced the erotic imagination and Sella wanted more. And as she got it
Marian got less and noticed. She also noticed our dwindling bank account
and my decreasing weight. I was getting quite thin and liking it because
I was able to fit into the zipper front leather bikini underwear which
never seems to come in husky sizes. She wondered about the porno films I
rented for posture concepts and the two pack a day cigarette habit I'd
picked up because they enhanced the drugs and were handy for inflicting
controlled burns. She nagged about them all and said she'd think I was
having an affair but I didn't have the look of love. She didn't know much
about the look of lust so she chalked my behavior up to a mid-life
crisis. Unintentional irony is, after all, the hallmark of the uninformed.
And it was an ironic statement because I was about to face the crisis
that sealed both our fates and many of yours. It began when I met Sella
at the motel we'd been using because it was fairly soundproof and had a
bed that was anchored to the floor. She was dressed in the outfit she'd
worn the first night I whipped her: leather skirt short enough to show
the fasteners on her garter belt, black silk blouse sheer enough to show
her nipple erections. The outfit summoned up a wave of nostalgia in me
and I decided to whip her again just like our first time but this time
she called it old and said it wasn't enough. She sat up, slithered off
the bed, sat at my feet, and said in a pouty little groan, "Ooh, I feel
like such a bad girl tonight. This just isn't enough to hurt it out of
me. I need something special, something very special."
I asked her what and she told me I had to be in charge, that it wouldn't
do any good for her to think of it. She asked me to go home and think of
something really special and then come back, without phoning in advance,
walk in the room and just do it, whatever it was, just do it. She said
she'd wait there until I came back, even if it was days or even weeks.
That's how bad she needed me to do it.
On my way home I suddenly realized that God chose to be love instead of
pain because it's so much easier. All you have to do to love is just do
it, just open your arms and passively let it flow. Pain requires
imagination, constant innovation. And that is of course the reason why
humans are only a cheap imitation of God and Satan a very good imitation
of humans. We're all in his image and have a taste for it. But the only
kingdom we can be masters of is the kingdom of pain, which requires
constant thought, which induces fatigue and depression, which causes us
to be tired and pitiable creatures which makes us even easier to love.
You can't win.
That's the state of mind I was in when I got home to Marian that night
and she started on me about money. The bank statement had come and she
couldn't help but notice the dent my last cocaine buy had put in our
funds. She wanted to know what all that money was for. And, by the way,
why had the latest Frederick's fall catalog come in that day's mail? She
even hinted that I might be a transvestite. I considered it for a minute
but decided that wasn't what Sella had meant by something special. Sella!
What the hell did she want? How far into cruelty could I go without
rounding the bend into love? Then I realized that was it, the most
dangerous thing to Sella of all, a thing so cruel that it stopped just
short of love. I knew what she must want.
Marian was in my face, literally, leaning in, waving the bank statement
under my nose. I stared blankly at her face and thought of all the times
we'd seen each other through. Hard economic times when we were both still
in school. Hard emotional times when members of our families had died. I
knew I loved her with an intensity just short of hate. Ah hell, what are
we to do about this capacity for cheap imitation? And I was an imitator,
a sincere flatterer, a man in desperate need of something special,
something to keep him from the land of the ordinary. My blood now flowed
too fast for me to go back to being God's navel or the devil's fantasy. I
needed something special to stay king in the kingdom of Sella. I needed
something on the cusp of love and hate.
Marian was in my face, shouting for my attention, and I gave it to her. I
reached out, hoping she would understand, and put my hands around her
neck, just as an experiment at first, to see if I was on the right track.
Then I started to squeeze. The more I squeezed the more I realized it was
what Sella wanted. They say hanged men die with a hard-on and I knew
strangulation would give Sella the biggest orgasm of her life and that
once she had it there would be no repeating it so she wouldn't want to
live anyway. And without Sella I could never go back to Marian no matter
how much I loved her. I had the power over all of us at that moment and I
took it, rather I thought I took it. Now I can see it took me. An
imitation's not the real thing after all, is it? But once I was squeezing
I kept on, feeling myself emigrate permanently into the realm of
imitation power as I did it. I was still a religious man but then so was
Lucifer. Let me tell all you consumer units who only read parts of the
Bible quoted in the elevator version of Bob Dylan songs that Lucifer was
an angel who became the devil when he decided to be equal to God. He
became a real imitation rather than a fake original.
After killing Marian I raced to the motel, knowing that Sella would
appreciate it all, that she'd been waiting there for me to kill her. I
could hardly wait to hear her groan with pleasure when I told her. I was
on fire with the thought of finally uniting her and Marian in my hands,
of squeezing my two great loves into one.
But she wasn't there. All I found was a garter belt lying like a black
corsage on top of a pair of black bikini underwear. A white note lay in
jarring contrast on top of the small pile of nylon. I read the hooked
scrawl: "As you can see I'm not here, and I'm still not wearing any
panties. As you know, witch rhymes with bitch. Now you know I'm one. I'll
leave it up to you to decide whether I'm the other. I know we'll meet
again when you become really special. Until then I'm always yours in
pain. Sella."
So good-bye, kind world. This is my last note to you, and my only
warning. Like all religious men I know that there is only one sin God
will not forgive and that is the sin of rejecting forgiveness. And sadly,
I reject it because I have discovered that Sella was the bitch and I am
the witch. In using her as a window to the caverns of pain where the fires
of small power burn I cast a spell on myself. Now I sit in those vaginal
halls on a throne of God's excrement beside a river of blood where I
baptize myself daily in dreams of Sella's neck gripped in my hands as I
squeeze in masturbatory pleasure. As she dies maybe the spell will be
broken and I can accept the forgiveness that lies just across the now
impassable membrane where love meets power.
The problem is though, that to find her I must remember her and I can
only remember her through action. So, just as Marian did, the ones of you
I select will in your final moments become Sella. I will love you as I
loved her and some of you will in those moments find that you love me.
Yes, it's true, you will. Because you are consumer units and each
purchase is nothing but a small and thrilling act of submission, a
voyeur's ticket to the kingdom of pain.
So as you stare at your televisions each night, know that I am the dark
moon that orbits full behind the piano key grins and the toylike wrecks
of the expendable cars. I'm the darkness in the center of the mother's
whispered douche advice to daughter. I'm here, behind the tube, outside
the window, and around any impulse you might have to leave fake reality
for real imitation.
I wait for you.
I want you.
I need you.
I Love you.
And, to paraphrase that most romantic of songs: You always love the
one you hurt.
(submitted anonymously)
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= Damaged 801.944.7353 The Death Star Bar 805.872.3151 =
= Purple Hell 806.791.0747 BloodNet 901.872.8615 =
= Atrocity Exhibition 905.796.3385 Phoenix Modernz 908.830.8265 =
= The Keg 914.234.9674 that stupid place 215.985.0462 =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= Files through AnonFTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
= FTP.LEMMING.COM/pub/zines/fucked.up.college.kids =
= FTP.PRISM.NET/pub/users/mercuri/zines/fuck =
= FTP.WINTERNET.COM/users/craigb/fuck =
= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
= ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU - /pub/Zines/FUCK =
= Files through WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
= http://www.prism.net/zineworld/fuck/ =
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
= (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author =
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(12/5/96)
