CAUTION: Sharp Object
by Tristan Tormino
 
 
Every inch of me is covered in blue saran wrap, and I must be suffocating. The boy in the bed with me has named himself after two American icons, part sex kitten, part serial killer. He might look like a young Alice Cooper if he didn't look so much like Pee-Wee Herman's psycho-sinister twin with long black hair shiny but thirsty from all the dying, bright red lips, black ink-drawing tattoos over creamy vampire skin, and dangly girl-fingers encased with sharp silver rings. He looks at me with eyes defined by thick black slashes; I gaze back through the glossy plastic. He's skinny, so skinny he looks like a high school boy in cut-off jeans and he acts like one. This is that young alternative rockerboy who committs perverse acts on stage, fresh from his arrest in Florida for getting naked during a show. Yeah, he knows he's a star, but he's shy with me. (He won't let me see his dick, even though he's going to be naked in the photos.) I am already naked, except for one ripped pink stocking alone on my left thigh, pussy freshly shaved, my black eyeliner and dark red lipstick (to match his) carefully smeared and messed ïtil I look like I've been savaged or ravaged, or maybe raped. He covers himself in front of my eyes, innocently twirling the telephone cord. Who is the kitten and who is the killer? He is the boy just interviewed in that music mag where they want to hear about his influences, when he'll be in the studio again, and all he wants to talk about is sex and his obsession with erotic asphixiation. He likes to choke girls while he fucks them. The photographer is standing over the bed, checking the light. My tits are too bright. He asks me again if I feel alright, if everything's cool. I say yeah, and he tells me okay, then I'm going to start shooting. Look dead, he says. But keep your eyes open.

I'm full from our three hour dinner; my insides are dripping of pure virgin olive oil, swimming in sweet red wine. I think we're going home, but we're suddenly walking the opposite direction from the car towards that street, and then we're walking past the neon lights and windowless walls: xxx live girls nude girls girl-girl sex shows xxx. She knows the place she wants to go, a place where the doorman won't smirk or give us a hard time or yell, ñfuckin' dykes!î at us. But I forget we're passing tonight, her in a dark doublebreasted suit, me in my short flowered dress. We're a boy-girl couple looking for adventure. Inside our own private booth, I see her, this girl that's going to dance for us. I wonder if I ever looked that cute perky tired annoyed ready sexy when I danced. I wonder how many times my date has cruised the shows, how many she times has come here to this one, how many times she has seen her, this one. But I don't have time to think all of it through because she's messing with me, rubbing her hands between my legs, pushing the dress up while she watches the dancer wink at her. Does she know she's winking at another girl? Or does she just think it's a handsome man out on a date with a much younger girl. A girl who was asked for i.d. at the door, thought to be sixteen, actually almost twenty-four, but feeling sixteen, like a nyphomaniac teenage girl needing to be fucked all the time. I spread my legs for her. She knows I want it 'cause I always want it---need it---from her. She slides back my wet panties, can't take her eyes off the girl, can't take her hands off me. I'm pretending she's never done this before, never taken a girl here. I close my eyes so they can watch each other and I can watch it all in my head.

The blond is not as girlie as she looks: bleached-out, ratty hair cut in different lengths with intense black roots; pale and perfect skin, slightly flushed to match her soft, pink, fuzzy sweater strected over touchable breasts; deep brandy-colored lips overdrawn and painted outside the lines; lace-up boots over ripped fishnets. Drinking a martini straight from the chrome shaker. She and her rough-and-tough looking bass player are shooting a threesome. I'm naked again, except for white knee socks and shiny red patent leather Mary Janes. The blond kneels in front of me as if she's about to eat my hairless pussy between spread legs while the bass player stands behind me, holds my arms behind my back and watches. The bass player is shorter, with bright orange hair cut in a shaggy flip, a sort of Tori Spelling-on-speed kind of look. Flashes blind my eyes, and I can't see anything, only hear her in my ear. Telling me how much she likes to ass-fuck girls, girlie girls like me, how perfect my lips are, how fuckable my ass is, how much she wants to stick her tongue up inside me. The blond moves closer to me, and I wonder if these two are lovers. Yes, they certainly could be. They'll go home tonight and fuck, the bass player whispering things to the blond, or the blond will think of eating my cunt while she's eating hers and get off that way. No. The orange haired one sneaks the test prints from the shoot into the bathroom, covers her girlfriend's body and jerks off in the middle of the night to me, my naked body held together by her, spread apart for her lover.

We meet at a club and I'm all dolled up for her in a silver lame baby doll dress, thigh highs, black high heel lace up boots, and the silver chain collar, locked around my neck since the day she put it there. It's a leatherboy bar, so I'm the only one in a dress, and she likes that, likes it so much that she leads me to the corner bathroom, pushes the door closed, leaving it slightly open and takes her dick out, makes me suck it from on my knees on the cold dirty bathroom floor which smells like piss and cigarettes. I take its length in my mouth as she pushes herself into me, shoving her dick down my thorat, so I can feel it scrape the roof of my mouth. There's lipstick on the condom when she pulls herself out of me and lifts me up on the sink facing her, so she can kiss me, bite my lips, suck on my neck. She tastes like smoke and beer. I'm not wearing any underwear she discovers, as she lifts my skirt up to see what's hers. I'm slick and swollen and my legs and lips are spread for her. She rubs herself at my opening, presses the head into my clit, pushes there as I steady myself on the tiny sink. I know that there are boys right outside, peering through the six inch space, growing hard in their denim and leather, stroking themsleves at the sight of such a capable top with such a big dick. I'm sure they all want her to fuck them and make them suck her, but I'm daddyÍs little girl and all they can do is peek through the opening and listen through the door and imagine. I can see the whole scene in the filthy mirror on the back of the door. Behind the door, their eyes and their bulges are watching me.

He looks like a freak: stragly brown hair, deep set eyes no describable color, and a wizened apple head face, incredible lines marking the flesh of his now-kicked heroin habit, late nights cutting himself on stage, touring and trashing the clubs he's played in. I've tied him to a chair with thick black rope, the cameras are rolling, a song I've never heard before is playing really loud. He's talking, saying some shit about how nice my tits are, how he wants to eat my pussy, and I don't want him to talk anymore. I want him to shut that smart mouth of his, shut the fuck up, so I slap him as hard as my hand will let me. While ihis skin is still stinging, I pry his fat, stupid mouth open and shove a flourescent ball gag in there. I buckle the leather strap too tight around his head and make sure to get some little pieces of hair caught in it, so he winces and struggles. Then it begins, my favorite part. Saliva runs down his chin, neck and chest. He is salivating like the dog he is, drooling uncontrollably like the sick freak he is. He needs to be smacked, fuck it, he wants to be, but most importantly, I want to pound his face until he cries. Each black leather lash of the whip is braided with knotted ends. I begin slowly, establish a rhythm that will falsely lull him as I beat his chest, and when I feel like it, I move my arm just slightly, so that a few lashes graze his neck and if he flinches they will hit his face, wet with spit. I know it hurts, I can see the red welts raising up on his skin, and he can't scream or ask me to stop or tell me to. His eyes plead with me. He's asking for it. I'm high from fucking this mother-fucker and if someone yelled cut or stop, I didn't hear it.

When I come home from a long shoot, she's got her dick on and the lights off. She's jerking off to the glow of a porn movie with her cock in one hand and the remote in the other, watching this big blond guy sodomize her favorite brunette. I know I'm next. She takes her eyes off the screen for a moment to watch me put my stuff down and strip. I kiss her. She says I smell like plastic and darkroom chemicals. She tells me I'm a slut, dirty, and I better scrub my body good, get all the sleaze off me, because she's not going to touch me until all the makeup is off, the marks of a day's work are gone, and I'm fresh and clean and hers again. She wants to watch me do it, but she wants to watch the action on the screen more. So I go to the dark room alone, and I'm glad she has let me because I need the solitude, the hot water, the sound of it flooding the bathtub. When I climb in, the water scorches my skin, but I like to feel the stings in the places I've been hit, the aches of the muscles I've strained. I want to look at my skin wet and flushed, feel my pussy under my hand as I jerk off, but there will be a knock at the door soon. And when the lights come on, I'll be ready to dance for her again.