What You Want
“I want to fuck you ’til you die.”
“Not really edgy. Not anymore. Not to begin with.”
“Sorry. I thought death was romantic.”
Maybe if it’s a boy. Killing boys is still avant-garde.
“Have you read the Marquis de Sade? He wrote about murdering boys. Fucking them too. This was… hmm… the 1700′s?”
“I don’t know. But I’m really into that Dennis Cooper guy. I met him at a book signing once. He was really nice, so I don’t think he’s actually a pedophile.”
“If you’re into killing boys, maybe I should hurt you. I’ll even cut you if you sign a contract. Something that says you won’t press charges. Not sure I’m comfortable with anything more. I don’t want to go to jail. Especially if I don’t get to come.”
“No, no. That’s not what I want at all. I want you to come. This should be hot for both of us.”
“Then why don’t you just fuck me? Oh yeah, you should know I’m really into rape fantasies. So if you could choke me out while I’m struggling, that would be cool.”
Trying something: “Well, I guess. Not that I’m against rape fantasies. I’m actually super into them.”
“So rape me, you pussy.”
Trying harder: “But you said I was interesting. That’s what you said. Rape fantasies aren’t interesting. I’ve done like ten of them this month. For work.”
Work means porn. In porn, fantasy is stupid. Like having a romantic (or violent) evening where people stop to relight or change camera angles. Sex dreams don’t involve film crews.
“I don’t remember what I said. I thought you were cute. That’s the only reason I wanted to fuck you. Now I’m not so sure.”
Stop trying: “Wait. You’re cute too. That’s why I want to fuck you. Look, we have something in common.”
“Oh my god. I’m leaving.” A realization. Because we’re at her place. “I mean… Ugh… What’s your idea?”
“Look, I want you to know what I’m about, which is ‘death’ and ‘not hurting women’… in a misogynistic way. And while I used to be into self-mutilation… Why are you smiling? Stop laughing. I’m being serious… See.” My wrists are presented. “There used to be way more, but these are the scars that stood the test of time. Anyways, I’m over it now. Even if I wasn’t, I play a lot of college students in pornos. The fraternity kind. The kind who don’t cut themselves.”
“I’m bored. You’re kind of boring.”
Panicking: “How about we start over? Like we’re flirting. I find the best way to do this is sexting. I’ll go to the bathroom and you stay here. Please keep your phone on?”
No response from her.
In the bathroom now. Cock pic. Sent. Serious Facebook/Twitter/Instragram topless pic. Sent. The same one, but smiling. Sent.
From her: a picture of her hand. It’s doing a “thumbs down.” Unless I turn my phone around. But she’s younger than me. Grew up with technology. She couldn’t fuck this up. Message received.
Need to prove I’m serious. Bathroom scavenger hunt. Open drawers. Open mirror storage. Whoa. One of those old razors. No guard. What does she use it for? Who cares? Perfect.
Slice across my wrist, not down. Don’t actually want to die. Fuck, that hurts. Haven’t cut since high school. There’s a lot of blood. Might as well take a picture. Sent.
Bathroom door opens. She’s standing there. “What did you do to yourself?”
“I told you I’m into ‘death.’”
“This is crazy. You still have a boner. It’s like True Blood but better.”
“You watch True Blood? I watch True Blood.”
“Do you want me to cut you?” she asks. “’Cause I’ll do it. No contract.”
“Whoa. Let me think about it. Yeah, okay… Okay, let’s do it.”
She slices down the wrist. Panicking for real. Not because I won’t get laid. Because I might die here.
Girl takes off clothes while dialing a number. Says it’s 911. Says her address and, “My friend is bleeding to death. It looks serious.” She hangs up.
Bleeding a lot and shaking. “What’s going on?”
“I’m gonna fuck you,” she says.
Boner’s not super strong, but she’s good with her mouth. It responds well.
Putting pressure on my wound and watching her go down on me. Intense.
She hops on. With her cunt. On my back. She’s grinding.
“I have to do it too,” she says.
“What?”
“I have to cut myself too. Otherwise it’ll look weird when the paramedics arrive.” She presses the razor to her skin, but stops. “Wait, you have to do it. It makes more sense.”
Razor’s in my hands now and I’m slicing down her wrist. It starts spurting.
“Mine’s bleeding way more than yours,” she says. “Oh my god, you have to make me come before I die.”
“Wait, what about me? I want to fuck you in the ass.” If this is the end, I kind of want her ass.
“Okay,” she agrees. “But I need to use my toy.”
“Where’s your toy?”
“In the living room. On the table beside the couch. It’s pink. It’s got a button. When you push it, it vibrates.”
Stand up. Light-headed. Dripping blood. My blood. Her blood. Not sure. Probably both.
In the living room, “Okay, I got it.”
In the bathroom. Pushing bloody vibrator into her hands, into her manicured bush.
“Do you have lube?” she asks.
“Can we use spit? I don’t think we have time for anything else.”
Bzzzz. “Uhhh. Mmmm.”
Four fingers in her mouth. Fucking the back of her throat. Sounds like she’s drowning.
Retrieving fingers. They’re sloppy. Thick, snotty saliva. “This should be enough.”
Fingers find her ass. Hole is smooth. Rubbing it with saliva. One finger. Enter. Two. Three. “Okay.”
Her face is going white. No one’s putting pressure on her wound. Not really spurting anymore. Leaking is a better description. Toy still putting pressure on her cunt.
Spitting saliva on my cock. Aiming. Most of it’s on my chest. Drooling on my chest. Lots of blood on my chest.
Cock in her ass. Moving slow. Staying still. Waiting for her to relax. “Are you relaxed?”
Bzzz. Grimace. “Yeah?” Mostly silent.
Jackhammering. Looking at her ass. Glancing at her face. “Sorry.” Stop glancing. “I’m objectifying you. Because I really want to come and your face is getting scary.”
Her ass tightens. Multiple times. Evidence that she’s coming? “Did you come?” Choke her to make sure.
Still objectifying. Can’t see her face. Don’t know what she’s saying. Can’t lipread. Vision going blurry anyways.
Come in her ass. Collapse on her. Stop objectifying.
Brush hair out of her eyes. Bleed on her in the process. Wrist blood in her eyes. “We did it.” Survived something together.
She whispers. Can’t understand. She’s convulsing. Maybe coming. Probably dying. She’s super blurry-looking.
Knocking at the door. Far away. Then closer. Then louder. Wood splintering. Paramedics in bathroom.
In ambulance. Both strapped to gurneys. Life support systems. Handcuffs on non-bleeding wrist.
Girl flat-lines. I hear it. Must be her. Because I’m still alive.
Packages of blood. Blurry paramedics jolting her with electricity. She stops flat-lining.
At hospital. We’re separated.
Doctor stitches me up. Gives me water.
Next day, I go to jail. They say I raped her. Someone rapes me. Go back to hospital. Doctor stitches up my ass.
Girl wakes up. Explains everything. Says it wasn’t rape.
Get out of jail. Text her: Crazy. Both got our fantasies. No response.
Go back to work. Director asks, “If you could do any kind of scene, what would it be?” Then, “Wait, I got it. She’s older so you should definitely be in college. Probably in a fraternity. What happened to your wrist? Are those bandages? I don’t think we can shoot you with those bandages.”
The author:
Danny Wylde is a pornographer, writer, musician, and filmmaker living in Los Angeles, California. He updates his personal blog at http://trvewestcoastfiction.blogspot.com.
