by Susan Shapiro
The more you want it, the more you show it. I saw it in your eyes last night, the way your body subtly responded to my every tongue-touch, giving itself over to me as if it had just escaped the ultimate suburban nightmare.
This morning, as I barely open my eyes, I can still taste your cum on my lips and I am immediately ready to once again ignite the crazy switch that will enflame your erubescent clit.
You didn't even realize it at the time, but while you were lying stretched across your futon totally naked and wasted, I was turning you on not by licking at your cunt but by sucking on your toes. The X had made you hair-trigger sensitive and the simple little tongue-flicks on the tips of your gorgeous toes drove you wild. You shook your whole body like it was about to come undone. I have never seen a girl respond to this the way you did last night. And I am now prepared to eat your toes for breakfast.
Lying on your futon, I can see you at your desk with your back to me, sitting in front of the computer cranking out your graphical wares and without even thinking about it you curl your toes up under you, thinking through your next image transformation. You're so sexy, so nonchalant about it, and you don't even know it. I'm filled with the kind of raw desire usually reserved for French Erotic Novelists old enough to be your grandmother.
A decision is made on my part: I will crawl over and eat them now, suck on them, lightly chew on their ideal texture, and then I'll consider crawling up into your face and eating that too.
You won't stop me. Not because you love it, you don't know how you feel about this, but you won't tell me to stop it because you don't know how to command respect from someone as powerful as me and as long as it doesn't hurt you, then I am allowed to do it, what ever it is, and you don't even realize that this is the way you are. You have no idea.
You have never had someone like me to deal with. You've watched so much adolescent TV and played in so many Internet-inspired MUD environments that you think this is just a role-playing game and that I am a Sorcerer who sucks on toes so as to recompose the energy I need to fulfill my prophecies. This is not true at all. I am just an average prognosticator of other-worldly things who wakes up in the morning happy to be in your luxury shit-hole and eager to crawl into your work space so that I can eat your toes. I'm not a foot fetishist. I just happen to like the way your toes curl up this morning and I know my anonymity as the chick you picked up while tripping on ecstasy last night places you in an awkward position and that I'll now take advantage of that awkward position and crawl over to you at your computer where you're trying to forget it ever happened.
You look down on me, unsure what to do. Some Fox network dumber-than-thou blond-chick takes over your mind. Without even thinking about it, you become her, or a simulated version thereof. You strike a pose.
Now you watch me strike a pose.
This is me striking a pose. My pose is simple yet says it all. It says: I fucked you like no man has ever fucked you and now you don't know who you are. I'll tell you who you are: you are the girl who got totally fucked by a chick whose name you can't remember. And that's the way it's supposed to be, baby.
My cocky pose is taking every pixel of desire the scene creates and superimposing it on your body, which is remarkable, since today you don't even know you have a body. You just cannot, for the life of you, conceive of the fact that your nonexistent body isn't registering much in the way of brain activity today.
All you can do this morning is take the feint imprints of what you started out with yesterday, before you met me, and situate it before the glowing terminal. You can compose on Quark and fuck around with some of the filters in Photoshop and this, you think, makes you a hot young artist. A hot young artist with a future. As a hot young artist with a future who comes from a family of money and understated emotional torment, you can look down on me eating your toes and think: "I wonder if she's ever done this to another girl."
Don't be foolish, pet, I've done this to millions of other girls. Girls love it when I wake up in the morning and suck out the cheese in between their toes. This is my art movement. I call it Personalism.
I tell you this, in between slurping sucks, I say: "I'm performing my morning manifesto on you now..."
But you can't accept that as a statement of reality because you're a stupid-ass girl from the suburbs who, hungover from the killer X, has no sense of reality. Reality for you is watching TV and eating Domino's pizza while posing as the coolest pop attitude appropriated from some corporate fashion magazine. It's mainstream attitude, baby. The kind I'm eating for breakfast.
Clawhammer, the new alternative band posing as not-ready-for-the-mainstream, is playing in the background, real loud, I put it in the CD player right before I started composing you this morning. Now as the music gets more dense and noise-intense, I suck on your toes even more ferociously and you can't help but feel something alien take over the body you don't even know you have this morning.
In between tracks, when the piercing, feedback-intensity of one song leads to a mellower tune that you can speak over, it's as if all this toe-sucking has made you a little more aware of the scene that surrounds you and words of some sort or another desperately want to come out and take advantage of the momentary quietude.
The more you want it, the more it shows. But you don't even know what it is. Everything is very confusing to you now.
You have something you want to say:
"Is this something like bondage?"
"No, stupid girl, this isn't something like bondage. This is your pristine toes becoming my idea of an alternative breakfast. They tasted so good to me last night that I decided to have leftovers before I split the scene. I'm going to leave now, savoring the taste of your delicious toes in my mouth until I brush my teeth later tonight and then go out and fall in love with some other stupid girl who lets me into her room for the night."
"Oh," you say and then turn back to the image of a fat, balding man with a piece of lightning cutting through the top of his head, staring at the image as if trying to figure out what to do with it, how to manipulate it so that it does exactly what you want it to do.