from Sexual Blood, by Mark Amerika
© 1995

The first thing that comes to mind as I start these chants is the time I used to take my daily walk through a narrow alley in the center of my town. Each day a slender adolescent girl would follow me at a respectful distance along that alley, watching me with sympathetic and curious eyes. She was very tall for her age and had long black hair parted in the middle. Her yellow tiger eyes pierced me from behind as if they had attached themselves on my shoulder and would not shake off lest I gave her my attention at which point she'd take them back and share her entire figure with me.

Her body was like that of a woman twice her age and she could not escape the fact that her own motordesire was revving itself up for me each and every day I passed her. Her mother, an ugly old woman with pins and curlers always in her hair, would grab at the child and drag her back into the garden level flat in which they lived. I'd hear the mother whip the poor thing yelling at her for her indolence. I felt sorry for the girl and didn't know what to do.

Once this girl walked ahead of me on the street and everytime I tried to pass her she jutted in front of me and slowed down so that I had no choice but to check her out. She was amply proportioned from the rear view and finally, as I was about to fall over myself with possible lustful recrimination, she turned around abruptly and asked me my name.

"I have no name," I told her.

This piqued her curiosity even more. She said that everybody had a name and if I didn't have one than I was weird.

"Yes," I said, "I am weird. I am stranger than the cosmos that produces me. And yet," I looked at her with all the guilt of a criminal who knows he's about to encroach the illegal boundary once again, "you're even weirder. You're insane."

She rolled her eyes up toward the heavens and her tongue lolled about the edges of her thick pouty lips.

"Look at you," I continued, "you're not even human. You have lost all sense of yourself as a human figure. You distort your face for me as if I were a painter ready to dissect the shapelessness of your being."

She looked me up and down unsure as to who I was. My lost identity fed her appetite even more than she originally thought it would. She bit her bottom lip and her eyes sunk low and placed themselves on my crotch.

"What are you looking at?"

"I'm thinking what it would be like."

"You shouldn't be thinking those things. You're a child."

"Yes, I know. But my mind won't let me think otherwise. I have seen pictures on TV; in magazines. I know what's there and yet I have not had the opportunity to really make it happen for me. In my mind I have often wondered what it would be like. And with you, a total stranger, I think it could happen. It's happened before."

"How could it have happened before? You just said . . ."

"I lied. I always lie. I'm a liar. I would lie to you if you'd let me be the one who made it happen."

I told her it was impossible. Blood and hate filled my brain. I was incapable of love but knew she'd be after me nonetheless. This was what made it so difficult.

"I will not tell a sole. Nobody knows this but you and me. I don't even care about it, really, but I have to find out for myself what making it happen is all about. There will come a time when it means something to me and then I'll start thinking things through. But now this is who I am and you're Nobody. I'll pretend you don't even exist."

This last seemed very sincere and was the only way I could even begin thinking about her. She had somehow known that by acting as if I didn't exist, she could ignite whatever possible interest I might have had in her. I told her I was incapable of love.

"Love isn't real," she said. "This is real," and she cupped my crotch with her sweaty palm.

Who knows what she possibly could have been thinking? There was always the chance that she was older than she at first seemed. Perhaps she was the older sister of the one I saw following me with her eyes those other days. But this is ridiculous. Speculation tends to obscure the view. She was trying to unzip my fly.

"No," I said. "Not here. Not this alleyway. Someone will see us."

She took me inside the monkeyhouse at the playground as if she knew no one would be there.

"No one's ever here," she said. "The few kids who live in this neighborhood are tired of being monkeys. They've decided it's better to stay home and watch TV."

Taking her head between my hands, gently and caressingly, I watched her easily absorb my genitals. She was like a little lost animal who had finally found a home...