Slut

[gomaos]

Disclaimer:

The view points and "moral ethics" displayed in this story do not necessarily match the author's viewpoints today.

This story is in no way meant to be sexist.

Male and female roles are absolutely interchangeable.

The story is entirely fictional. After all, no real person would behave so disgustingly.

Written 1996.

"SLUT, GOD-DAMN SLUT, GET OUT OF MY MIND."

There was nothin he could do to stop his mind from holding imaginary conversations with his ex-wife. It was pure torture.

Here he was, doing his best to get over the whole thing.

He had left his wife and children several weeks ago, and he had had very good reasons.

Three or four years ago she had told him that she didn't love him anymore.

But she had still desired him in bed.

Two years ago those pleasures had started diminishing, the occasions had gotten less and less, until they were down to once a week, which was really no more than a bad joke.

Their love play had become a farce, a neverending repetition of the same old boring game.

Still sort of enjoyable, but unnerving because of lack of imagination or creativity.

It was like going to church:

You get up when the priest says so.

Phil got down when Gina said so.

He licked the pre-determined time.

You fold your hands when the priest says so.

Phil put the stupid condom on when Gina said so.

He is on top, and she is on her back.

She hardly did anything, he did all the work...

And he was supposed to enjoy it?

It had not always been like that.

She used to get on top of him and ride him into oblivion.

They used to get themselves into utter ecstasy and wouldn't stop until he'd emtied himself completely into her.

They thouroughly enjoyed it.

They used to have the best sex in the world.

Sometimes she would go down on him and suck him until he came into her mouth, and she didn't mind it at all.

All the fun was gone now.

The last three years she had tolerated him around the house, which was HERS.

It didn't matter that the deposit for the house had come from his money, she had arranged to have it put into her name.

He was so "easy-going" that he didn't care.

After all, he was a good help with the kids.

They loved him, and it gave HER more time.

During those last three years, she had treated him successively worse.

She used to lock HER bedroom with the big waterbed in it to keep the kids out.

For the first two years he still had a key.

Then she took it off him.

She told him that she wasn't his wife anymore.

What was she? His fuck-mate?

Recently she had started a Tafe-Course to learn hair-dressing. The other people taking the same course were mostly arrogant assholes, people who were up themselves because of their "looks". They behaved as if the values of "society" were their very own values. They went along with just about any prejudice. Most of them took the course because they were to lazy to work, so they couldn't be called dole-bludgers.

Every weekend she went out to meet up with them on their pubcrawl. He was not welcome, since he really was on the dole and officially lived in a small house in the bush and just came around on weekends to look after the kids.

Every Friday and Saturday night she went out, while he minded the kids.

He had to sleep like a dog on a mattress in the living room, because HER room was locked.

One time some relatives came for a surprise visit, her cousin plus hubby and kids.

She wasn't there and only arrived later, from a "party".

Quite drunk, she sat in front of her cousin's husband and wanted to ask him a favour:

To stay for a while at their house in the city to do another course.

She sat there, drunken smile and probably thought she was seductive.

Her skirt was slipped upwards, exposing a messy slip. Her vagina smiled invitingly at her cousin's husband, sperm still running out of it.

Her favour was denied. The cousin's husband said later, that she would probably try to seduce him and then tell his wife he had raped her, and that would be THE END OF HIS FAMILY.

She stayed away more often, ignored his complaints, ignored whatever he said or wanted.

Every night when she stayed away, he got more drunk.

But soon the drinks wouldn't put him to sleep anymore. The doctor perscribed him Valium, and he started using it.

First two at a time, then four, then six. Then eight.

He could see that soon he would take a whole pack.

The last day:

He had tom leave for a job at 5am, she had just come home at 4.

He came back at 3 in the afternoon, said that he had had enough and would leave know.

He packed all his personal belongings within one hour, left all the stuff that they had bought together.

The kids tried to calm him down and begged him to stay.

But this was it.

He had stayed around the house because he loved them so much.

However, he wouldn't be of any help to them when he was dead.

And he could see that happening soon, very soon.

He gave both kids a kiss on the forehead, sort of ceremonial and cold.

His anger was too strong for him to feel any other emotion.

Then he left, to his little house in the bush.

He phoned her the next day, she still ignored him and was busy learning the mindless, useless stuff for her course

("You have to use Wella-X for the best perm..." and so on.)

The next day he left the little house, to never return.

After three weeks of looking for the right place, he found a job as a steward in a big hotel.

Oh, he had lots of experience for this job: He had been washing dishes for Gina for the last three years, and still had to pay rent to her.

She had her seperate income, he did all the work in the house, and still had to pay for it.

Now he really enjoyed his work, because he got paid for it.

Still, while he was flushing and brushing pots and pan and plates and saucers and cups and whatever, his mind wouldn't settle.

It was repeating over and over discussions with Gina.

"He" was always making his point, and couldn't understand why "she" wouldn't agree.

He could do nothing to stop his "inner dialogue".

It pained him: The more he thought about her and how she was so ignorant and treated him like shit, the more he felt wounded.

Sometimes he wanted to hit his head against the wall to stop the repetition of never-ending arguments inside his head.

Nothing helped. Whenever his mind slipped into automatic, when he was working and his mind was not very occupied, here was the dialogue again: "Gina, if you would only stoip being a slut and stop going out with this idiots, I'd take you back...."

HELL,NO, he didn't want that. He wanted to be rid of her, wanted a new life, a new woman.

He had been quite good-looking and sexy ten years ago. Now he was 44 and put on some fat from heavy drinking.

The more he drank, the more she had put him down.

the more she had put him down, the more he would drink.

An endless downward spiral.

Allover, his situation was quite hopeless.

He began to think of suicide.

Anyway, he had lived his life, had had many women, but he had also experienced "Real Love"...?

"Real Orgasmic Heights" which could only be reachedthrough a state of emotional togetherness, so-called LOVE.

He would not forgot those moments.

There was nothing much life had to offer now.

Sure, for $100 he could have a prostitute for half an hour. The next bloke would already be waiting. NO THANKS.

He couldn't get along with people in pubs and discos, they were just too...single-minded and boastful and just not his wavelenght.

He had had enough. Slut, booody slut, get out of my mind.

But- if she gave up being a slut, she could come back to him- couldn't she?

NO-FUCK!

He had had enough.

He thought of Kurt Cobain, singer and guitarist of rock band Nirvana.

He was popular, earning heaps of money, could have had millions of groupies.

Yet he shot himself.

With a shotgun right into the mouth.

Why?

He must have experienced the same thing he did now.

THE NEVER-ENDING INTERNAL DIALOGUE THAT NEVER STOPS.

The TV- or Radio-Show in your mind that you cannot switch off.

He remembered the .22 rifle he had in his wardrobe.

Sure, only a .22, but it would do the job.

He had lived his life, was finished now.

He would never fall in love again.

He was too old and ugly. There was nothing more to be experienced.

Slut, goddamn slut.

I would take you back if you'd stop being a slut.

ENOUGH.

Thinking of Kurt Cobain, he got the rifle. Bullets and magazine were missing.

Where were they?

If only you wouldn't go out with these people, I'd still love you....

The Hell with it.

Soon all would be finished.

He just didn't want to think these thoughts anymore.

At times in his life, he had experienced REAL ECSTASY.:

He had made love with his first wife, Martha,

in a csaravan somewhere in the hills of some remote countryside.

At the time he was obsessed with the Idea of tantric sex. He had tried it with her, but she didn't like it much. She preferred orgasms.

That night, however he had coaxed her into ddoing it the tantric way again. Just insert the penis into the vagina, and move as little as possible. Most of the time, in the end, he always came, but sometimes he didn't. it would take half an hour, or longer.

In the end she would force him to finished.

This time had been very long and enjoyable.

He had gone outside, for a piss.

While he was pissing, NATURE, THE TREES, THE SHRUBS, THE NIGHT SKY, GOD talked to him: WE LOVE YOU. wE ARE HERE WITH YOU, WE EMBRACE YOU.

And all the electron and protons and positrons and whatever-trons swung in harmony, in unison, in joy.

Slut, goddamn Slut, I don't want to think about you anymore.

He had had two wives, one 12 years, the other one eight years, Four children with them.

And he he was-by himself.

No wife loved him.

The children did- or did they?

Thinking of Kurt again, he loaded the rifle with th bullets he had found. Only one bullet, that was all he needed.

He wouldn't shoot himself into the mouth.

Too messy.

Deep inside his heart he was not a punk.

His heart.

He felt for it.

Where was it exactly?

Slut-goddamn slut.

If you only could become your former self again, I'd take you back.

Slut, goddamn slut.

Enough he would never hear that again, never feel that again.

No more pain, just ONE LAST PAIN.

KURT, HERE I COME.

The rifle was too long for him to reach th trigger while he pointed it at his heart.

He soon found a solution for that.

In one corner of his room, there was a long, strong nail in the wall.

He coaxed the trigger of the rifle onto it.

Pointing the rifle at his chest, he searched with his hand for the exact location of his heart.

Slut, goddamn slut, If only I could forget you.

He couyld feel many vibrations in his body, every organ seemed to send out different waves of energy.

Finally, he located the heart.

He pointed the nozzle directly at his heart, touching his skin.

Slut, goddamn slut.

HE PULLED.

STARS EXPLODED, EVERY CELL IN HIS BODY REVOLTED, ALL TURNED RED.

He was floating through clouds.

There was SILENCE-endlessness.

He floated and floated, and lost himself.

He floated for an unthinkable time.

Until, suddenly, he touched down.

Lay on a cloud like on a cushion.

Just lay there, naked, like a child. And the sun was there, like life.

There was an endless cover of clouds up to the horizon.

And from the horizon a figure came walking.

Hard to recognize at first, because he was so far away, but as he came closer, he seemed familiar.

Young, slim, half-lenght blonde hair, an impressive face: Kurt Cobain.

Walking over the layer of clouds.

Approaching, he said: "how are ya, mate?"

Feeling sort of alive, Phil said:

"I just arrived here. You must have been here for quite a while. I know you. You are Kurt Cobain."

"Sure," Kurt said, "I'm Kurt. So what's new? Do you think you are in Nirvana?"

"I don't know where I am."

"I must be dead."

"Dead you are, mate. That's for sure. No doubt about it."

"So this is the afterlife?"

"I wouldn't really call it life, mate," Kurt said.

"Why's that?"

"The women here have no pussies...."

Silence.

"Kurt, why did you kill yourself?"

Kurt's face turns red, even in death.

Why?

Why?

Because of...

...that...

"Slut, goddamn Slut, can't get her out of my mind, even here..."

"Slut, goddamn slut...."

Copyright Gomaos 1996.

Copyright Gomaos and Shaman Australis 2001