This is an excerpt from the novel “Confessions of an Abortion Addict.” The novel is still in progress and this excerpt might not be sequential and will be subject to additional editing. Thank you!
“I love your fucked-up-ness, ” I said to her, handing the joint I had exhaled.
“Do you like the fact that I’m fucked up because a) you’d like to fix me or b) you just attracted to fucked-up-ness?” smoke encircling above us.
“I’d like to think that it’s a bit of both,” I smirked, pulling her closer to me and felt her trippy breath, the joint was lost somewhere in the struggle. The pheromones were intoxicating. She starts by pulling off my shirt and looked impressed by my physique. She ran through my entire body counting every muscle (one of the advantages of wrestling for a living is that you have to stay in shape. The mass gainers, multi-vitamins and moderate use of the d-ball pills helps a lot obviously) and then using the sharpness of her nails, plunging deep into my shoulders towards the small of my back.
I feel my skin peeling off— and there is no pain. I pull away, teasing her a little. This allowed her the opportunity to get rid of her shirt and surprisingly she was able to maintain unbreakable eye-contact, slithering out of her cut-up jeans, purple-bra unfastened with precision while doing so.
I now place my finger on her third eye. Sliding it down. Through her delicate nose; I stop for a moment marking the sweet nectary lips, and she takes the opportunity to open her mouth slightly, suckling my finger; the left hand appears, starting its journey behind her ear, towards her neck— she shivers from the slight tickle and her legs jerk, like she was touched by static. Her hands pierce me, she has dug them deep in my abdomen, and now she untangles my belt releasing me. She is admiring my body—the left-hand strokes her pronounced clavicle towards her swollen breasts.
I pinch her nipples which looked like half-opened eyelids in that light— she tells me to pinch her once more but now, with more feeling. I slap them a little harder, and she smiles with her finger in my mouth. She now uses both her hands to make my right hand travel down kundalini. I’m briefly introduced to the notch of her neck, and with each touch, she moans, and I get closer to her navel, but before that, I’m introduced to the surprising tautness of her midriff.
“My Belly button is my weak spot…you better not tickle me over there,” She says with a slight inflection. Her body is swaying wildly.
“It’s almost as if you want me to tickle you down there,” I said winking my eye.
“No, I’m serious…”
He drops down to his knees and using his subtle beard tickles my belly button, his stubble doesn’t hide his ovular face, the point on his chin does the trick. I noticed his flame dancing beady eyes fixated on me. Both his hands are circling my breasts, circling around trying to find the center of me, and I feel the cold touch of tongue. I can’t stop giggling. The tickling gets to me every time, and I’m in the middle of stroking his arms, which are veiny, sweaty and the just right kind of muscular and then he—
The remaining journey is now continued with the tongue through the trimmed vegetation below. Both my hands are around the waist; I circle the vortex, closing my eyes, and calling forth the darkness: echoes of vaginal mucus. I feel the circuitry tightening up, quivering to the performance of my ritual.
I’m pulling his long wavy hair. He knows what he’s doing. I feel his teeth leaving bite impression on my thighs and then he uses the same teeth to uncover the piece of clothing that remained.
He is devouring me, eating me from limb to limb. I see an image of an eye dilating. The shape of an octopus turning blue to squirt the black liquid. Blackness drowning, I choke on the afterimage of the red perforated holes on a mucus-like surface. The tentacles grabbing me, and the image makes me recoil, but it becomes whole, as I travel out of view. Endorphins in chaos—perhaps I’m beginning to react differently to my fears. The stubble is perfect. The stubble is perfect for pussy-eating.
I feel the sea-monster raging from its cave. It is pulsating with electrochemical processes. I use my fingers on the peach-colored walls to feel for traps, gooey richness. Drum beats, following the gushing of water, slip and sliding along. A flash of light and it closes. Waterfall sounds, birds chirping. There is tranquility for once. I even feel a slight minty breeze, a faint odor of pleasure. I go deeper into a darkness I’ve never seen before. The kind of darkness untouched by any kind of form. And the darkness opens its eyelid looking at me, and I see my true self. Within the gigantic eye, I see my reflection which is half me and half her or half him and half me. I’m disoriented, at the reflection I see, our souls intertwined in bondage, what true unity looks like– the final orgasm. Merged into one figure. There were separate thoughts, and now we were reflections integrated, and thoughts took form rather than words:
“My real name isn’t June. It’s Jasmine Khulsoom. I’m a daughter of a Pakistani-mother who married a white man, without the blessing of the family. He ended up leaving my mother. I had a twin sister, who died here in the womb because we shared the same amniotic sac; she died of umbilical strangulation. I was born by being the cause of my sister’s death.
My mother and I lived alone here, without the support of anyone. She worked every waking hour to make sure I got the opportunities I deserved. My mother, though cast out, impressed on me the love of God. The love of the religion, the love of Islam but I saw nothing but randomness. She wasn’t impressed by my atheistic inclinations, but I guess she couldn’t blame me for holding such beliefs. I hated my father; I hated not belonging to anything. I hated that I had no faith. I loved my mother though; her strength, kindness pulled me through and she died last year. I felt that she hated me. I hated myself for the longest time. I blame myself for everything; my unknown sisters’ death, my parent’s separation…I’ve hated myself, always. That has been the only constant: the disgust that I have for myself.
I don’t know if there is any way I could get over that. Then I discovered that I could be someone else. I could be paid to be someone else. If only for a moment or two, I could escape who I really was. Acting became my everything; I went to school part-time and then eventually auditions on weekends. I got a couple of two-bit parts, and then I had my stint with, Tcherkovsky. I was able to network with some big shots down south and finally, I got noticed, and now for once—I am noticed, and now I’m on the verge. I’m on the verge of being discovered. This suffering will mean something.”
This was never communicated orally. It was understood. Absorbed by the exchange of fluids and touch. Traveling through the intermittent pause of our violent love-making. Sometimes it takes a moment to become familiar, sometimes it takes a lifetime, and even then you are only an acquaintance.
The bedsprings jolting, fucking while high is a place to be. I can feel the penis gasping for air, it was there long choking on the ashes. He is trying to pull out, but I’m clasping it, squeezing the juices. I will give him relief when he embraces his inevitability. I am the receptacle of both life and death.
“Shit! Shit! I think I came inside of you…” He said finally releasing himself. He rolls on the side of the covers.
“It’s ok. I’m on birth control,” I said, and I didn’t remove my stare to ensure that he believed me. I wonder if he knew how truly fucked-up I am.
© A.R. Minhas 2017