Coffee Shop AU * act 1

I work at the strip mall coffee shop. Scratchy black shirt that itches on my clammy back. Slacks my ass looks too big in. Baseball hat that crushes my sweaty black hair into my ears.

I lean forward to hide my tits. I’ve become a goblin thing, using my shoulders and the bagginess of my shirt to pretend there’s nothing there. Hides my name tag too. HI I’M CANCER. My black cap pulled over my head, just an acne-scarred mouth, they think I’m a high school boy. I mumble so they can’t hear my cleft palate wheeze.

People mostly come for the coffee, but we have all kinds of shitty food. I help people kill themselves. Chocolate-filled glazed donuts. Froyo spiraling into cups in glistening brown coils. Coffee spurting and steaming all around me. Ketchup splatting on slimy hot dogs, grease clogging the air clogging my arteries clogging my ass.

✦

Night time. Walking up the hill to me and my mom’s apartment on the edge of town. The only time this place has depth, when it’s fucking obliterated by darkness. The gas stations and marts and the strip I work at, turn to stars. And after staring at the inside of a toilet, cash register, the counter, beige fucking walls, my flip phone, computer screen, even a little altitude makes me dizzy, makes me feel, I don’t know, like something could happen. But the feeling is so big I don’t know what to do with it.

I wish I could share it with someone.

The guys I meet up with. We talk about my situation and I think maybe tonight I’ll feel like a guy. But they’re only interested in my pussy. I tell myself tonight is when I ask for the other thing, the thing I’ve been jerking off to since I was 12 the thing I think about every single second, but when I’m laying in the back of their car with my pants down I freeze up and can’t say anything and then they go inside me. It hurts, but I guess that’s normal. I’m sure they have a good reason for not touching the other hole. It’s dirty. Probably doesn’t feel as good. It would be gross if I asked for that.

✦

I never take my shirt off during sex. I wear my old swim top underneath from when I was uh 12 with some trash cartoon characters on it and it crushes my tits down but smells like shit, super moldy dogmouth smell. I don’t wash it because I only have one, and we don’t have a washing machine. One time I tried to wash it in the shower but I used too much laundry soap and I couldn’t rinse it all out and it still foams when it gets wet and burns under my armpits. I don’t have time to walk to the laundromat, and it would just get sweaty again on the way back. So fucking funny.

✦

I go to a top surgery meeting where you can meet all the other idiots who need their tits cut off. They all have their life so much more together than mine. Their special fucking gender friends and their parents came with them or they have a car or I don’t know I’m just making shit up. I hate them. I’m so fucking gross and I didn’t have time to shower after work so I smell like armpit and boob sweat and dirty pads. I used to think no one can smell me but basically I spent the last year of high school learning my periods smell worse than everyone else’s, like unusually bad, like a dead fish nosebleed, like vampire diarrhea, like the change I give customers, metal reacting to my sweaty palms.

I don’t know why people don’t ask the questions I need to know. Waste of time, sitting here waiting for them to ask the questions.

Can I take my ADHD meds?
My Welbutrin?
What about weed haha.
Edibles?

Keyhole. Double incision. I don’t know what size mine qualify for. I’m not that big. I’ve got that fetal alcohol syndrome and my mom reminds me everyday because she’s still drinking and every year she gets worse, giving herself brain damage so she can’t even stop anymore, she’s just stupid and argumentative. Sometimes I worry, I only want to be a boy because I hate women and hate my mother who got pregnant and kept drinking and smoking and it’s all so fucking gross and I’m gross.

On the projector, they show a picture of nipples being lifted off, and put back on. I don’t want them to look weird. My hairy brown nipples. Maybe I’ll just have weird mushy Frankenstein nipples for the rest of my life. And I’ll never take my clothes off.

Can I still do my job?
I need my job to pay for this.

I start paying attention.

Oh.

I’ll need a ride. I’ll need to take weeks, months off. I’ll have T-Rex arms. Dinosaurs can’t work fast food.

There’s no way I can get this surgery.

I get yelled at for taking a day off when I’m puking my guts out with the flu. I can’t sit around for months. Doing nothing? That’s insane. I’d lose my job. My mom would kick me out.

I leave. Last question I hear is, Can I go to the bathroom alone? Do I need help with the bathroom?

How do people live with the fucking humiliation?

I’ll just get high.

✦

I get stupid high and listen to Killswitch Engage – My Curse over and over until I’m crying. I try to talk to my online “friends”, try to type “sad anime boy” into the GIF search bar but I drop my phone and I can’t…

It’s so depressing how my room hasn’t changed since I was a kid. Messes from high school I still haven’t cleaned, piles of clothes and random garbage, and I only notice when I’m high. I feel so stupid.

I took off my work clothes and everything and I’m sitting there naked in front of my dresser, trying to find something to wear to bed. Something to bleed in. Going through my panties in total shock and awe. All these white crotches stained with years and years of disgusting shitblood like coffee stains or burning clouds. I need to buy some boy underwear. But I won’t. I never do anything.

✦

Growing out my hairy legs like it means something. Makes me feel protected. If I can’t be a boy maybe I can be an animal. But I shave my pussy so I can see my dick. Kinda cool. Growing extra meat. My day off so I guess I’ll get high and look at my new personal penis. Such as it be.

My mom is banging around the kitchen. I know I’ll hear a beer crack open soon. I spin the pink razor in my fingers, green moisturizer strip choked with black hair. I look at my shaved crotch, microdick peeking between my brown lips. Drops of water on it like an alien mushroom. Baby parasite. Hey lil guy…

✦

After going on T, my shit smells different. Feels different coming out of me. Maybe it’s just the job. I transitioned to this franchise, not a gender. All I have time to eat is the crap I sell. I’m also so horney I could fucking die. I jerk off in the bathroom with the smell of rancid shit all around me, and it hurts to touch down there, 50% pussy agony 50% jerking off to painal muted on my phone and if the first gets to 51% I give up and wash the blood off my fingers, and if the second gets to 51% I cum.

Only time I can do it during the week. I’m too tired when I get home, and it smells like booze from my mom drinking all day. She gets mean. You little shit. I don’t see why I can’t ever be a big shit.

✦

The other half of the time she’s crying and begging me to forgive her. I get all ready to hate her and then I’m crying with her. I wish she’d just go completely evil. I can’t stand this.

✦

I hate having my period in the staff toilet, it smells so bad and I bleed so much and it really fucking hurts. It looks like a miscarriage. And I’m the one who has to clean it up. That’s right. Not only do I have to stand all day and sell shitty food to people, I have to clean up what comes out too. You ever take the worst shit of your life in some public restroom? At least when the humiliation was over, you got to walk away. I don’t.

When I was a kid, I took that for granted. My guts were pretty messed up but at least someone else took care of it. Then one day at school, I started bleeding. It felt like I was being ripped open and of course I was, I was bleeding, and I cried because I expected someone to make it all better. The nurse came and I was so relieved, and I was waiting for that Band-aid or some sugary medicine and then it would be fixed, like all the other times I got hurt. It would be fixed forever.

Then she told me this was permanent. It was just going to be this way. No one was going to help me. No one could do anything.

I felt like a fucking, slave. Like they really told me what I was for the first time and I stopped seeing myself in the bats and the bugs and the airplanes. I couldn’t go in their direction. I was getting heavier. I started seeing how trapped I was.

You know what most sentences end with? That’s my life.

I can’t fit a tampon in, it hurts. I have a small pussy I guess or I’m oversensitive. I have to change pads like every half hour. I double, triple pad during work because I can’t take breaks for hours and it gets so fucking sticky and rancid.

On my ten minute break, I eat the same food I have to sell and smell all day, knowing it’ll give me constipation but it’s all I can afford and even walking to the taco place next door and getting in line would be like, half those minutes.

When I stand up, all the clotted sludge just spills out of me. It’s like I shit my pants from the front. I can feel how soaked my pads are, hypersaturated and disintegrating on my slimy crotch and I go to the bathroom super fast but all the stalls are occupied so I grab a paper towel and go in the corner and wipe wipe wipe, big black bloody bunches of shredded mucus like my body is trying to get rid of itself, it hates itself as much as I do. The cheap paper towels are rough on my pussy and scrape my t-dick and I come home raw every day.

I can’t even ask girls to check me now, seeing if I bled through. It was so automatic back in high school. But I’m not a girl anymore. I don’t know what I am. I’m stuck somewhere else, with no one to talk to.

✦

I read endometriosis comes from high estrogen levels. The girl who wants to become a boy, cursed with estrogen tumors. Isn’t that amazing?

I thought T was supposed to stop periods. I don’t know if I’m doing my DIY wrong but shit’s so bad. I keep missing injections. I barely have enough money to pay the guy I get it from. I’m stuck with this disgusting body I made even worse. No one will tell me what to do.

I look into the darkness, the glass front of the store with me lit up inside like a shitty little lizard in the coffee terrarium. Everyone else has gone home. No one even comes here this late, but I have to be here for another two hours. There’s nothing out there. HA HA HA. I have to laugh to hear something. You know? THERE’S NOTHING OUT THERE.

✦

Grease oozes from my face. This acne is fucking killing me. I go to work and the grease soaks into my pores and I’m surrounded by hyperfatty food I can’t keep from shoving in my mouth.

I pop my pimples like bubble wrap and the skin smears under my finger like loose plastic. Acne, endometriosis, my whole body is infested with cysts. I try Accutane and when I wake up my shirt is soaked with blood and pus. It looks like someone got murdered in it. I try to take it off and it’s like I’m ripping my skin off, like the time I tried to wax my pussy when I was 13, already hairy as shit.

I need to shower but it makes my skin sensitive and raw. So I go to work itchy, or I smell like greasy shitboy. And no matter what I pick, both are true by the time I clock out.

✦

A guy comes in. Skinny. Dark hair, even oilier than mine. Wearing business casual, I guess. Wrinkled dress shirt with a freaky yellow tie that hurts my eyes. Eyes pink like he smokes a lot of weed or coke. Orders coffee, sniffing like he has a cold, or he smells something bad. I get that paranoia from high school that everyone can smell my periods. I want to check my panties but I have to ring him up and he sniffs again and now I’m sweating so I can’t tell if I’m nervous or having another amazing boy trickle from my hormone-mutilated pussy. I tell myself, he’s just a coke head.

He never orders food. Just sips his coffee.

✦

In the dark slacks, my thighs look soft and weak. I look so stupid in fast food uniforms. Not male or female just cucked. Castrated unit.

When I was little, I thought strip malls had actual women stripping on video screens. I thought they were like an actual mall like some kind of futuristic sex paradise. Big screens with oiled-up spray-tanned women like the magazines my dad left around. But now the real mall is dead and only the strips survived.

Break time. I sit in my car eating stale donuts getting chocolate and rainbow sprinkles all over my chin. I look at the flat world around me. Everything is so fucking flat. Like I want to be.

✦

One night, that guy is waiting by my car. I never really looked at his face before. That long, sniffy nose, kind of obscene in a way I can’t describe. And long eyelashes. I can’t tell if he’s ugly or hot. He’s in his thirties, I guess? I don’t really know what thirties looks like. You’re my age, or you’re old. He smells like dirty flowers. Makes me think of the last time I played in a park, when my hair was long with little pastel clips so close to the dirt smelling the wet grass after the sun hit it. Pretty flowers and a chocolate bar melting in my fist. Big shiny dog turd with green metal flies on it.

His voice whines like those flies. I couldn’t hear when he was ordering, but out here, there’s something sick in it. Like buzzing electrical wires that keep me up at night.

He asks if I want to make some money.

I say, like counterfeiting?

He stares at me like. Then a weird laugh comes out, like a piece of glass he had to pick from his gums. He looks around, and there’s no one else in the parking lot. And his face drops. I don’t know how to describe it.

He says, he’ll pay me for my used…

I get an awful feeling in my stomach, because I know what he’s going to say. As long as no one says anything, I can keep kidding myself. But one more word and I’ll know what he sees when he looks at me, when everyone looks at me, this whole time, hahaha. Like the tiny boy space I carved out is going to get pushed back in again.

So I get it over with. I say, panties?

No, he says. Pads.

I say, how do you know I’m wearing pads?

He doesn’t say anything, just drops the money on the ground. Didn’t expect him to be for real. It’s a free market, I guess.

I get in my car hoping the shadows cover me, and pull the pad out the front of my work pants like a bloodsoaked diaper. His nostrils twitch, big black holes, and he shivers.

He takes the pad carefully, and it rustles against his nails. Holding it from below, the sticky adhesive like a fly trap, warm with my body heat. And the dirty mess on top. He flips his tie back over his shoulder and takes a sniff. I swear his mouth is watering like he’s going to stick that big nose of his inside and I’m honestly nervous like I don’t know what Erotic Menstrual Pads are supposed to smell like or if there’s bad or good kinds but I know my periods are incredibly disgusting and not nice cute little bleeds like everyone else’s and he’s probably going to be really mad and I’m sitting there like, I fucked up. This is on me. I tricked this guy into smelling my dogshit periods. I’m going to get arrested. But he just sighs, and says, thank you. Like I handed him a glass of water in the desert.

Then he’s gone. I pick the money off the asphalt, and the underside is stained black.

✦

He stops coming to the store. Lmao.

I get extremely stoned in my bedroom and look inside my panties. My little dick, and below it, my pussy squishing into the dirty pad. I can smell it. This shit he paid for. I think about it every time I bleed now. Every time I throw away these pads. That’s money. It’s like a switch got flicked and I can’t turn it off. I touch myself in a different way. This thing that produces value. I guess I just really love money. So this is the closest I’ve come to loving myself.

When I’m this high, I get closed-eye visuals. I grope myself all melty, sculpting my body into different shapes that stick to my eyelids. I rub the front of my panties, this crinkling bulge, and imagine it’s my dick and balls. The pad rubs my pussy and it feels so good, my boner grinding into the dirty strip.

I hit the pipe and blow it out the window, into the hot night. Kids bouncing a ball around. The apartments across with their windows open, sticking their heads out to smoke cigarettes or talk on their cell phones. No one can see my panties, and I start humping the wall just below the window sill. I want to get stupid high and cum into my wet smelly pad. I take another hit, grinding on my cotton-plastic super-absorbent bulge and soaking it so heavy I’m dragging snail trails up the wall, bloody streaks. I squeeze my ass tight, sucking the skid marks inside, thinking about crushing a cock between my cheeks and milking it dry. And that’s when I cum hands-free, and my thighs bang into the wall making the window rattle, and I drop my glass pipe I had since middle school and it shatters two stories below, and I watch a big gob of drool hang from my mouth, and fall after it.

✦

Last day of the weekend. I get high again but I just feel blunted. I pass out on the couch. Mom comes in. Turns on the TV. I can’t shut it out. I should move but I don’t. I should take a shower because my pussy itches like crazy but I don’t. I haven’t even changed the dirty pads I splooged in last night. I just keep watching like a fucking moron. Every second I become more like her.

Old movie. All the people in it are dead. Or dying of cancer in some hospital bed. I’m going to get trapped in a cube like that. Just another blur of static, a ghost on the parking lot security cameras. They delete the footage every week. In a week, even that little smear of me will be gone.

✦

Itching all day. Burns when I pee. I go home and spread my pussy in the mirror and I have a yeast infection. Picture me in my work uniform, black slacks pulled down, that scratchy black polo shirt hanging over my ass, and my cap still on. Great product placement, right. Our delicious coffee comes with a free side of cuntboy yeast. Just hold on while I dig it out of my pussy.

It looks like cum and I get turned on. My growing dick rubs against my underwear all day and drives me crazy. I rub it, watching myself in the mirror. You just got cummed in. You walk around with cum leaking out of you…so nasty. You got uh…bred. You got pregnant now you have to get the baby punched out of you. I bend over my dresser gritting my teeth with little tears coming out of my eyes, and punch my stomach. Feel how bad that hurts? You have to get punched over and over until that retarded, deformed fetus comes out of you. You’re used to bleeding nasty shit all day. This is what you deserve. You don’t want another you, do you? Another Cancer. So take my fucking. Fist. Dear.

Mom comes home. I go to the bathroom and take my weird binder off and gag at the smell. My tits have rough scaly patches and the acne is really bad. I hope they rot off. When I’m dead I’ll finally be fucking flat.

I turn the shower on, hot enough to hurt. I lay on my back so my tits pancake, and in that hot spray I am truly yaoi. The water burns my lips like a boy kissing me, flowing down my body smoothing it out, washing away the grease and pussy crust and yeastcum and I’m super fucking horney. I tweak my nipples pretending they’re puffy yaoi nipples, but I need something to look at or I won’t cum. I used to draw and write fanfic and no one commented OR kudoed my story about Nahobino SMT V having a huge period and bleeding into the desert sand. Flat tube boy with beautiful hair running around a giant litter box. I don’t have giant blue hair. If I had giant blue hair everything would be okay…

On my phone looking at gay porn through a cracked screen. On Pixiv trying to find the worst thing I can. I have a pic saved of Nahobino getting his stomach punched until he throws up. Ol Reliable…

I look up at all her hairy empty shampoo bottles she doesn’t throw away all this useless feminine junk and my big boy Axe Body Wash what a fucking joke all surrounding me like a galactic senate as I grind around on this yellow-pink mildew tile my mom’s alcoholic feet stand on. The pic isn’t working. Wish I could draw what I like. I tried drawing Nahobino and it just looked like retard Sonic. I can’t draw because I am retard Cancer. I shut my eyes and try thinking about Nahobino’s perfect genderless castrated streamlined tube body getting the shit beaten out of it. I am him. He am me. I am one tummy punch boyman. Fucking kill me.

I like to jerk off with a full bladder. I push on my urethra and it’s so sensitive like every touch is going to make me explode with this fake yellow cum. At the same time, I mash my clit, dick, chronicles of clitdick, and it uh feels fucking good and tingly until I can’t take it, piss squirting through my fingers and I go, uh, uhhh, too high I hate my voice, it’s getting deeper but it still sounds stupid, and the orgasm is kind of there but it hurts the way it always hurts when I finger my pussy, and the afterglow fades and I’m itching all over, laying there with piss pooling in my thighs. I stab my pussy again just trying to feel something, but it hurts and the water is getting cold. I slide down the tub and now piss is soaking my hairy ass and back and my finger slips inside my asshole, lubed by my stinky wagie piss, fingering an asteroid nugget of fast food and I wish I had a prostate instead.

Boy stomach. Getting punched. Boy ass. Getting raped. Please let me cum. Uh. Shit shit shit. Suddenly it’s hard to move and everything is blurry and I’m used to feeling like shit but this is worse, I think, which is extremely fucking scary. I was so busy jerking off I stayed in way too long and I’m dehydrated and my blood pressure feels weird and I need to shit. I remember the really long hot showers I’d take in high school, they were like enemas. Something would loosen up and I’d need to shit right after, which was really frustrating after spending like two hours getting clean.

I try to stand up and I can’t. I’m blacking out but my ass is going to explode all over the bathtub so I crawl out of the tub. It feels so bad not being able to dry off first, sitting on the toilet dripping everywhere, water cooling on my skin. My ass sticks to the toilet seat making me feel the folds of my tummy and my boobs squishing into it and all the other things I wouldn’t feel as much if I were dry or wearing clothes. And then the shit burns out of my asshole, ripping me apart. And there’s blood, I can’t tell if it’s from my ass or pussy. I got ripped a new cloaca. I keep wiping, hoping its over, then more comes out, and I have to wipe again and it hurts worse each time like paper cuts. The shit is so liquid it’s hanging in capillary bubbles between my cheeks. This castrating diarrhea that chains me to the toilet, forcing me to look at my tits. Maybe I shouldn’t get them cut off. They hide my tiny dick and they hide the diarrhea. But I can still smell it.

I flush the toilet and it clogs on all the TP. I look over my sweaty tits and see the cloudy brown fill the bowl, toilet paper swirling around like ghosts. My blood pukes up with it too, staining it red like I killed the toilet with my ass. It hurts so bad I want to kill myself. But I don’t want to die on the fucking toilet, naked, with these boobs out that I don’t even want. Cops standing around jerking it. Mom so drunk she can’t even process. Jesus Fucking Christ. When I die, I want them to just throw me in the dirt. Don’t pay some funeral faggots to box me up. No one’s started a conversation with me for like a year, so don’t stand around talking about me now. This could’ve been an email etc.

I squat over the toilet, trying to reach for the medicine cabinet. A splurt of bloody diarrhea hits the seat, spilling down the side. Like dollar store chili and spaghetti sauce. Every movement unkinks my guts, squirting more out. But I find mom’s painkillers. I stretch my neck under the faucet to get enough water to swallow, and this crushes my chest on the counter, dragged through the toothpaste smears, mom’s dark hair sticking to my wet boobs. Reminding me why I want to get these cut off again. So my brain stops short-circuiting when I move.

My shaky ass splats back down on the desecrated seat, slippery with vampire fecal spatter. I don’t know when these pills kick in so I grab my pipe and smoke even though I know mom is going to yell at me. At least I didn’t shit all over the bathtub. You’re welcome. I smoke until I can think even a single thought. When the pain finally starts to dissolve, I could cry, which I literally do. Like my pussy got the knife pulled out. Like my uterus got pulled off the hot stove. I look down into the toilet and all the bad stuff under my fat thighs looks super dark and evil. I wonder how much that guy would pay for this. Probably like a million dollars.

I sit on the toilet, so chilled out my head is resting back on the tank. Cold porcelain chilling my brain out. And in the warm empty space where the pain used to be, I’m suddenly very very turned on. My thighs are full of blood. My dick is painfully swollen. I’m so worked up from it getting chafed all day, then edging in the shower for an hour. I need to cum as badly as I needed to shit. So bad I can’t decide what to cum to, like I have a golden bullet and I’m trying to aim it. And I’m praying like thank god there’s something that can move through my body in a straight line. You know?

Shlk shlk shlk. Me and my friends Weed and Adrenaline and Mom’s Pills are racing the pain, trying to scrape this ‘gasm out of my chasm like extra-sparkly gunk. My holes hurt so bad but I keep abusing them. Am I one of the guys now? Is this male pain? Boy pain? Why can’t I ask for a dick in my ass? It can take anything.

I think about that guy. Walking away in those tight business fag pants of his. Like he had a stick up his asshole. I think about feeding him my hell period from my hands like a deer or pony or something. I swear I’m not a freak I don’t think like that. But weed does this thing where it makes my imagination morph every second and I can’t control it, crazy images shapeshifting and all I can do is watch. Sometimes the images are hot but they get ugly and weird and I can’t control it, like I’m in a sexual nightmare ocean of pussy blood and it’s throwing me around on the waves.

I spread my legs and even that feels insanely good. The more I spread, the harder and wetter I get, smelling my period shit soup like I’m a fucking hairy animal in heat all sexy and wounded and I think about bleeding into his mouth. The weed shows me sitting on coral fantasy spiky growths on the edge of the uterus death sea and my legs are spread so wide and my chest is flat and all the surgical pulp is coming out of my pussy and he’s eating it. The surgeons cut off my breasts and he has to eat them. Or my body ate itself, ribs spreading like teeth, and I’m shitting my mangled boobs out and he’s eating them like a dirty pig. I’m shitting out my cyst-covered ovaries and you know what they call those? Chocolate cysts. Filled with rotten old blood. Eat my chocolate, you skinny faggot pig. You fucking creep.

I think about that long nose of his, sniffing in my direction. Making me flush under my work uniform, baggy black clothes sticking to my sweaty body. His stringy dark hair that he tries to keep neat, but it won’t behave, like he’s fundamentally too greasy to uncreepify himself no matter how many showers he takes. Sneaking around parking lots, paying girls for their dirty menstrual products. Or one very special boy (that’s me). I hope that felt special. Like the fucking menstruation fetish jackpot. So pathetic. I can’t imagine being in my 30s. I hate that I think about him. I hate this dad-shaped hole in me. But the dick don’t lie and it says, I wish I had an older boyfriend who was a freak. And could help me become a Real Boy. Shlk shlk shlk.

I fantasize about bringing him home but I don’t get in trouble for having a boyfriend because mom marries him and she stops drinking and I hear them having sex through the walls and one day, maybe Xmas after mom cooked a big meal like she used to and it was a great night and now she’s in bed asleep—he comes up behind me and I feel him or maybe it’s New Year, a really special night that feels between everything, and it’s dark on the couch and he’s touching me and he shouldn’t and he touches back there where it’s dirty and he pushes inside me and I’m his son and he cums inside me and he says he’s so happy to be part of this family and don’t tell anyone or mom will start drinking again. And I sit there crying and trying not to get cum on the couch where mom used to drink or she’s going to drink again. I have to hide the cum. I rub my butt around because it hurts. Now there’s blood and his semen on the couch and he makes me lick it off so no one will know. It tastes like my butt and it tastes like my pussy and I cry. This is what you are, he says. You’re my private pussy son I can fuck. I’m going to buy you birth control. And that’s when I cum.

…

Imagine a really good orgasm here. Imagine I wanted to scream but I couldn’t. Imagine my pussy is still aching. Imagine my dick hurts like it was fucking sandpaper but I can’t stop rubbing.

Fuck.

Yeah, that’s great, the idea of having a boyfriend is so insane I imagined him marrying and fucking my mom instead. What the fuck is wrong with me?

But it made my pussy explode. So I guess I really am like that. Why is it only hitting me now? Drugs are the only time I have intelligent or original thoughts. And the original thought of the week/month/year, my one fucking epiphany, is the sex I have with strangers and the sex I have with myself is completely different. Because they’re trying to feel good, and I don’t know how to feel good. I thought I’d end up feeling good but maybe I have a totally different set of organs. Cyst boy. I’m a little pussy sludge that got shit out and now I have to live like this with these Cronenberg parts no one understands. These guys just want to bust in me and some of them even try to help me bust too. And it seems so obvious and simple but I just can’t feel it. All I have is pain. So I guess the thing I want to share is pain. Pain and humiliation and garbage. Maybe that’s why I’m thinking about this nasty dude becoming my mom’s boyfriend and raping me. Maybe that’s why I feel like my clit is going to shoot off like a bullet, even though I just came. Rubbing my dick with my thumb, while I finger the hole I was just shitting out of. It burns but I don’t care. My pussy is dripping down into my asshole lubing it up. Weed changes the channel, the pictures in my head going faster and freakier the more I jerk off, like I’m driving on a wet road. That dark-hair guy comes into work and I hand him his coffee but this time it’s full of steaming triple espresso boy period chocolate cyst diarrhea and I make him jerk off in it so there’s creamer and he drinks it and he’s naked and everyone is naked and has to drink my evil crotch coffee and I cum so hard the toilet bangs into the wall. Am I squirting? Squirting blood? My pussy spits dark red and it stings so good coming out. This is insane. I’m so high, it really feels like I have a dick. Glowing yaoi penis spraying into his face and making it so pretty the way the blood flows down, his mouth open like a hyena choking on my nasty pussy spray, swallowing all the blood and shit of my pain.

✦

I switch to cups because I Read ABout it ONline. I’m sick of waddling around with pads between my legs, worrying that someone can smell me. The cups come in pink, purple, or clear. I get clear even though I like pink and purple. I pinch it into a little burrito and push it inside, twisting between my full bladder and the shit I haven’t taken. Feels extremely weird and bad, and I’m ready to give up like tampons. Then I find the right angle and it slips in, lubed by blood. And it opens up. Secret cup drinking my blood so no one has to know about it.

Feels weird taking them out like they’re going to suck my guts out. But maybe that’s another reason I don’t use tampons. I’m sick of being penetrated there. Little vampire penises. Pads are like the neutral option. Asexual baby mode. With cups at least I’m filling something up. Better Out Than In. Gross, right? But it’s easier to piss than cum, and easier to shit than take a dick.

✦

He’s back. He orders coffee and drinks it in the corner. I start sweating like I’m in trouble. I don’t want this weird guy who paid me for dirty pads hanging around.

I look up, and he’s gone. And I think, this is just one of billions of shitty coffee places with chuzillions of strip mall rats like me in uniforms and he doesn’t even remember me. Nothing touches anything. Nothing is connected.

I stay late cleaning the toilets and lock up after I’m done. My car is the only one left in the parking lot. As I walk toward it, my stomach gets tight. It’s always dead quiet, even during the day. And now it’s dark and there isn’t even a breeze.

He comes out from behind my car like he’s growing out of it. If I yell, no one will come. Flat buildings just for business, no houses, all emptied out. Not even the glow of a liquor store.

He stops like he can smell how scared I am. Like there’s a pool of water around me and he doesn’t want to get his feet wet.

I say something retarded like, hey what’s up. Just trying to act normal.

His face does something. I think he’s trying to smile, but it just looks worse. And it doesn’t stick. He looks strung out. I know that face. Dead glass face.

He says, I want to pay you.

I don’t normally blush, but my face goes red hot, and I hope it’s too dark to see. I say, I don’t use pads anymore.

He sniffs like coke is dripping down his sinuses, and his tongue flicks out, and that’s all it takes to smell his breath, rotten and sweet. He says, so what do you have? Like we’re out of a menu item.

I say, how much money do you have?

He shows me and it looks pretty good. So I get in my car and unzip my black work pants. I say, don’t look.

He says, I don’t need to. I can smell it.

What the fuck.

I have to spread my legs and take my pants off all the way, so I’m sitting bare ass on the seat hoping he doesn’t look inside. The cup is giving me a lot of trouble. I didn’t expect to sweat so much. I push like I’m shitting, and hook it with my finger until I break the seal suction cupping it to my insides. It schloops out and I’m so embarrassed to show him my Silent Hill period cup. The plastic is stained brown and yellow. I never clean it anymore. I used hydrogen peroxide at first but like, why bother. It’s just going back up there.

The rim looks like the opening of a condom, that rubbery ring. There is so much blood inside. And there’s layers, like a swamp. Black scum floating on the surface. I have to appreciate it, like staring at a big shit. My raw fucking pain. I hope he appreciates it.

He hands me the money through the window, and this time I count it. Wad of 100s. But I try to act like I do this all the time. I give him the cup, and he holds it like a shot glass. Rolls it around, sniffing it like wine. We used to go to church, and I think about the communion cups full of dark red fluid.

I’ve met perverts before. Sold pics online to some guys when I was 13, 14. The weird thing is, he isn’t jerking off or talking about his fantasy or anything. He honestly looks disgusted. But it’s like he can’t help himself.

He chugs that shit. Slurp slurp. Eyes rolling back. And it hits him the way a shot hits my mom, when she gets the high-proof shit after a few days of withdrawal. Like someone addicted to being punched in the face. He drops the empty cup and he’s got my cervical goo on his lips like I nutted in him. Endometriosis lip gloss. He straightens up trying to act dignified, like nothing even happened, but he’s holding that cup like my mom holds a glass, kind of stupid and obvious pretending like she’s not going to pour another, waiting for me to look the other way. And it makes me sad. Like part of her still cares what I think. Like she knows she’s hurting herself. And she hates that she’ll keep doing it. Maybe I’ll end up like her. Maybe cutting my tits off will save me. Maybe I should cut something else. I don’t see a way out. But these 100s feel good in my hand. They feel like my dick.

I say, meet me next week. Cold flash of sweat just from putting it out there like that. I don’t really tell people What To Do. I think I got laughed at a bunch so I stopped. Saying shit too quiet for anyone to hear me, apparently, but wondering, did they hear? Was it just so cringe they didn’t respond? Was there some kind of historical problematic reason I’m too dumb to know about? Or they say, I can’t hear you. So you raise your voice a couple times and by the time they can hear you, it just sounds stupid, whatever cool tough or flirty thing I was saying, and the louder I get, the more you can hear my lisp and that nasal cleft palate hole that God fucked into the roof of my mouth.

But the guy hears me. It’s like nothing else exists but this parking lot surrounded by darkness. He wipes my pussy blood off his lips and he looks so cold and so hateful. But he doesn’t say no. And I know what happens when you can’t say no. Shit keeps happening.

✦

thank you Krabat, Kuaikuai, and Joshless for your invaluable contributions. many parts are inspired by the experiences of others <3