Past Indiscretions Page 4

  was nothing but skin against skin, as cold and sexless as a physician’s probing hands. The soggy towel was quickly discarded, adding to the already mountainous heap of soiled clothing on the floor. Endora gently guided Robert onto his back with a palm pressed flat against his chest. He lowered, fanning out his arms, his knees bent over the edge of the bed and his toes pointed toward the floor. Endora shed her clothing like a loose second skin, and added it to the floor heap. She was slightly broader in the shoulders than what might be considered beautiful. Her breasts, likewise, were far apart, but full and natural, the nipples bristling with small bumps. As she took him inside her, Robert’s mind drifted far away, guided by the memory of her. The venom stirred in his veins.

  ***

  He met her at a sex club in the basement of an abandoned storefront. The wall-length windows were plastered on the inside with a mosaic of yellowing newspaper. He knocked on the door twice and was greeted by a woman in her mid-twenties with a bun fastened tightly to the back of her head.

  “You must be Robert. Please come in.”

  Robert had recently broken up with his girlfriend of two years, with the pretext of meeting, but more specifically, fucking other people. Their relationship had grown stale, the sex predictable and routine. Now Robert was a free man and the myriad possibilities danced inside his mind whenever he sat alone in his apartment. One night, indulging in the depravity of his imagination, he decided to meet a woman and have sex with her. It was, he resolved, the best way to snuff out his boredom. His planning was swift and pragmatic. He didn’t know any women who would sleep with him if he sent out a request by phone or text. So Robert turned to the only available alternative, the Internet. He opened the browser and searched for adult classified in his area. He scrolled through various listings, through pictures of women, clad in skimpy nightwear, with their heads cropped off, and homosexual men exploiting their swollen pride. Then, halfway through the fourth page, Robert spied a listing for an establishment that offered unusual sexual services at a discounted price.

  It was this advertisement that brought him to the abandoned storefront and the woman with the bun. He stood in a vast, dark space with empty shelves lining the stained tile floors. The woman led him to the very end of the room, through a curtain and down a set of wooden stairs.

  Robert now found himself at the beginning of a long hallway lined with paintings. Each of them hung at waist level. The woman took him by the hand and guided him down the passage. One of the paintings, Robert noticed, was an unskilful portrait of a clown done by John Wayne Gacy, with a glory hole where its mouth should have been. From behind the painting came a muffled weeping sound and Robert shivered to think what crouched there.

  Then, all at once, the lights sputtered and went out, plunging the hallway into darkness. Robert stopped and the whole world seemed to follow. Robbed of his sight, the only things his senses could register was the woman’s soft grip on his hand, and the skin prickling moans behind the painting. Then the woman’s voice rose out of the void, “Don’t move. Hold your breath.”

  Robert’s heart was hammering in his chest. He did as he was told. It happened very quickly. The lights flickered on an off in quick succession, partly revealing meaty, dripping things shrieking in the dark. They moved across the ceiling on sinewy arms or tentacles, passing directly over Robert’s head, four or five of them – he couldn’t tell for sure – screaming like women in labor. Then the lights returned, and the creatures were gone.

  Robert turned and looked at the woman with fear in his eyes, and she squeezed his hand, managing somehow to dismiss the horror with the pressure of her touch.

  “Nothing will hurt you here,” she said.

  At last, they entered a doorway at the end of the hall. It opened into a whitewash room with a bulb suspended from frayed wire. In the center of the room was a bare mattress stained in various shades

  of red and yellow. The woman told Robert to remove his clothing and lie down. As Robert unbuttoned his shirt and lowered his jeans he had the strange sensation of becoming aware in the midst of a dream. But it quickly faded as he lowered his bare ass on to the mattress. The woman got naked and sat down opposite him with her legs spread. Her genitals were neatly shaved, but it didn’t take Robert long to notice the strange scar encircling her vulva. He reached out to touch her, but she gently pushed his hand away.

  “Watch,” she said, looking down.

  The scar around her vulva shifted until the genitals bulged outward. A set of spidery legs the same color and texture as her skin twitched and finally extracted themselves from a series of pink grooves on her abdomen and thighs. They were attached to the vulva itself, which functioned independently of the woman’s body. Once it had detached itself from the woman, leaving a dark pink crater, it crawled down her thigh toward Robert, whose first instinct was to cower away.

  “Don’t be afraid,” the woman said. “She will show you a new experience.”

  Slowly, Robert started to relax. The creature crawled up his leg and loomed over his crotch. Its mouth shuddered, disgorging a stream of whitish mucus before a worm slithered out onto Robert’s genitals. Its glistening grey skin was porous and covered in ridges. Hundreds of tiny legs undulated as it moved.

  ***

  It took Robert in its mouth. There was a brief moment of pain and then a rush of euphoria unlike any Robert had experienced before.

  “It’s her venom,” the woman said, as Robert’s eyes rolled back and a moan escaped his lips. “Just relax.”

  The worm shuddered, its body expanding and contracting, bringing Robert closer to orgasm. The pleasure was so intense a rivulet of saliva escaped the corner of his mouth and traced a shimmering

  line along his jaw. His body shuddered. His veins filled alternately with fire and ice water. The worm pumped, dripping slime that matted Robert’s pubic hair. Then, all at once, his arms flew out. He collapsed prone on the mattress. His balls tightened against his perineum as he came. Semen oozed out of the worm’s pores and coursed down its spongy flesh in a series of pearly stripes.

  When it was over, the worm removed itself from Robert like a sock pulled inside out. Regaining its shape it crawled up his chest, trailing a mixture of slime and semen. Robert could feel its tiny legs tickling his neck as it slithered up his chin. Its mouth, warm, wet and puckered like an anus pressed against his lips. He tasted himself along with the raw liverish tang of the worm.

  She was utterly beautiful, the conqueror worm that would forever haunt the ruin of his sexual existence.

  ***

  Robert opened his eyes and saw Endora staring down at him. “What’s the matter with you?” she said, climbing off. He was flaccid and unable to perform. Robert ignored her and stared at the textured ceiling. There he saw a series of patterns like worms eager to bestow new sexual experiences. Pleasure, he knew, had reached its summit. And so, with the taste of her a ghost on his tongue, Robert decided to become her priest, to worship her memory even into darkness.

  I’m On My

  by

  Shane McKenzie

  Morris wanted to scream as he walked from the office building toward his Camry, but he breathed instead, held his composure. Ten years. Ten years he has been working for this company, and it was finally paying off.

  I’ve been their best guy since day one. It’s about time.

  When they had brought him into the office, he was sure it was bad news. Not because he had done anything to warrant any kind of reprimand, but because he was pessimistic by nature. And he had never seen his bosses call anyone into their office for anything good.

  “Morris,” Mr Whitehead had started. “You know I like you. You know I think you’re a good worker, right?”

  Morris had nearly passed out right then and there. He couldn’t lose his job. Not now. Not with a baby in Melissa’s belly. Not while they were waiting to hear back to see if their offer on the house was accepted.

  “Y-yes, sir.” He wanted to say more, but his words
sizzled away on his tongue like water on a hot griddle.

  “Stand up, son,” Mr Whitehead had said.

  Morris did.

  Then the scowl on his boss’s face curled into a grin, his smoker’s teeth like sallow toe nails past his pasty lips. He reached out his hand. “Welcome to upper management, Morris. You earned it, you son of a bitch.”

  Morris had to clench his teeth to keep himself from squealing as he gripped Mr Whitehead’s hand which was as a soft as a cinder block. His boss, who was usually devoid of all emotion, pulled him in and hugged him. Cheap cologne and stale cigarette smoke wafted off him, and Morris held his breath as they took turns patting each other on the back.

  There had been an awkward five minutes or so after the strange embrace they had shared, then Mr Whitehead told Morris to head home for the day, that he deserved a three day weekend. “Come Monday, get ready for some real work. Yeah?”

  “Of couse, sir. I’m—”

  “No more sir bullshit, all right? It’s Abe from now on. You’re the new sir around these parts.” He cackled, coughed, spat something into a crumpled napkin that had been sitting on his desk beside a photo of him and his dog, then excused Morris.

  Morris hopped into his car, slammed the door, stared at himself in the rearview mirror. A pair of baby blue, miniature sneakers hung from the mirror, and he held them in the palm of his hand for a moment as his eyes welled up with tears.

  No, getting a promotion didn’t make them rich, but fuck if it helped. No more worrying about if they could afford their house payment—if their offer was accepted. No more worrying about the upcoming hospital bill. Melissa could stop freaking out about missing so much work while she recovered. He could feel the stress melting off him like candle wax.

  One day, baby, he thought, you won’t have to work at all.

  He wiped his eyes with the heel of his palm, then pulled his iPhone from his pocket. Melissa’s name

  was at the top of the list in his text messages—though it was labeled Babycakes—and he started typing, grinning as his thumbs tapped the screen. They hardly ever talked on the phone anymore—it was always text messages now, like little virtual love letters.

  Huge news today! Got cut loose early. Get ready to celebrate!

  It only took about a minute to get a reply.

  Babycakes: Don’t mess with me!!! What is it????

  His reply was simply: ;)

  Babycakes: Evil bastard! Well hurry home!!!!!! I luv u.

  Luv u 2.

  They had been talking about the promotion for years, and Melissa had been the optimistic one. Always telling him not to worry about it, to just keep working hard, that it would pay off eventually. Morris had been on the verge of quitting on more than one occasion, but she talked him out of it, told him to hang in there, not to let his years of hard work all be for nothing.

  And now, when it mattered most, it actually happened. Holy shit!

  As he pulled out of the parking lot, he threw in Melissa’s Black Eyed Peas album, switched it over to I Gotta Feeling. He always hated the group, especially hated that fucking song, but it was Melissa’s favorite, and whenever she was in a particularly good mood, she blasted it, nodding her head and waving her arms, shoving Morris to get him to join in. Right at that moment, the song felt appropriate, and he smiled as he nodded to the beat and pulled out of the parking lot.

  ***

  The deluxe sushi platter from Uchiko, a bottle of Crios Rosé, and a bunch of peach-colored roses sat in the passenger seat. Each one Melissa’s favorite. Two of which pregnant women weren’t supposed to touch, but even their doctor had smirked at this myth.

  “If that were true, there’d be no French or Japanese people walking around, right?” she had said as she slathered Melissa’s stomach in petroleum jelly.

  Besides, he thought. It’s a special occasion. A few mouthfuls of alcohol and mercury never hurt nobody.

  Since leaving work, a couple hours had passed, and his phone had been blowing up with text messages since. He hadn’t expected it to take so long, but Uchiko was packed and it took forty-five minutes just to get his to-go platter. Central Foods was swarming with customers, the lines filing back into the aisles. But none of that could spoil Morris’s mood. He just smiled, waited patiently, sent generic replies to his wife as the texts rolled in.

  Babycakes: OMG! Where are you already!

  Be home soon, babe.

  Babycakes: Seriously, this is WRONG!!!!!

  Luv u!

  Babycakes: I want a divorce!!!!!!!!!!!

  Kisses! Muah!

  He knew she was probably pissed for real by now, but the second she saw what he had brought, the second he told her what it was they were celebrating, all anger would disintegrate. Morris had heard warnings from just about every person he knew, even some he didn’t, about how Melissa’s hormones would turn her into some kind of foul-mouthed monster, that he shouldn’t take anything she said to heart because it wasn’t really her speaking. None of that happened. She was a little more tired than usual, but that was all. Hell, her sex drive had even intensified since the pregnancy, and Morris wasn’t the kind of guy who got weirded out by her bulging belly. They had some of the best sex of their entire relationship in the last nine months.

  As he grew closer and closer to their apartment complex, his stomach started to churn, palms grew sweaty, mouth dried up. He couldn’t wait to see the look on her face when he told her, couldn’t wait to hear her make that eeeeeee noise she always did when she got excited.

  His cell vibrated again, and he chuckled as he pulled the phone from the cup holder and glanced at the screen.

  Babycakes: I’m pretty sure I hate you. WHERE THE HELL R U???!!!

  I’m on my—

  Something smacked the front bumper hard, throwing Morris’s forehead into the steering wheel. His phone flew from his hand at the same time something collided with the windshield, bashing it inward and frosting the glass with cracks. As he slammed his foot against the brake pedal, there was a scraping and squealing sound coming from underneath the car as he dragged whatever it was the last twenty yards or so.

  Morris threw the car into park, then cupped his face and moaned. The gash in his forehead cried streams of blood that ran down the sides of his nose, dripped into his eyes, sucked into his nostrils with every breath. Raw fish strips, broken glass, and rose pedals lay on the floor in a puddle of sizzling wine. The taste at the back of his throat made him gag, cough, and he threw his car door open and let himself fall out onto the concrete.

  The car hissed and clicked, the scent and taste of burning oil stinging his nose and throat.

  A deer, he thought. I hit a fucking deer.

  No. Not a deer. Not unless this was some kind of circus deer that had learned to ride a bicycle.

  Morris forced himself to his feet, winced at the searing pain in his face and chest. A diagonal stripe of agony burned in his torso where the seatbelt had gone taught and restrained him from flying headfirst out the windshield.

  But none of the pain mattered as he stared at the mangled bicycle sitting crooked and bent on the hood of his Camry. The seat had been planted into the windshield along with the handlebars. The back wheel, though slightly bent, spun in place, the metal spokes stained red with blood.

  “Oh…oh jesus…” Morris dropped to his hands and knees, praying he would see another pair of eyes staring back at him. Quivering with pain maybe, but open, with life behind them. “H-hello? Are you…?”

  A hand lay just in front of him. Small, three of the fingers broken, the shredded skin revealing the meat and bone beneath. Instead of a pain-stricken face, he saw the back of a head, the hair matted with blood.

  “No…nononono…”

  Morris jumped back to his feet, launched himself into the car and searched for his phone. His hands shook so bad that when he finally grabbed it, he accidentally tossed it to the back seat.

  And then he stopped.

  Took a deep breath. Glanced at his
reflection in the rearview and then quickly looked away.

  Check on the kid first. If he’s alive, I’ll call an ambulance, police. Anybody who can help him.

  And if he’s not?

  Morris dropped to his stomach, grabbed the kid’s wrist. He couldn’t tell the kid’s sex yet, and had expected some kind of reaction when he grabbed at the hand, but it remained limp, not a sound from the twisted child beneath his Camry.

  He had heard somewhere that you’re not supposed to move a person after an accident. That they’re supposed to stay exactly how they were until medically-trained personal arrived on scene. But Morris pulled on the tiny arm anyway. He expected the body to be trapped, caught up on the undercarriage or something. It slid out easily, making a harsh scraping sound as it was dragged across the rough concrete, smearing blood across the blacktop.

  A boy. Maybe seven years old.

  One look at his face and Morris dropped the boy’s arm, turned his head, and splashed hot vomit over the street. He looked around and didn’t see anyone, no sign of the boy’s parents.

  What the fuck were you doing out here in the dark, goddamnit!

  The boy’s eyes were closed. His forehead had been ripped from his skull and hung to the side like a flap of bloody leather. His shirt was so soaked with blood, Morris was too scared to look under the cloth to see the damage.

  This kid was dead. He was alive five minutes ago, probably walking his bike home since he ended up under the car—flat tire maybe, or a busted chain—probably in a rush because it was already dark and he knew he was going to be in trouble for being late.

  And now he was dead. He was dead because of Morris.

  And there’s not a fucking thing anyone can do about that now.

  Morris checked over his shoulder, rose to his feet and spun, making sure nobody was around, that nobody saw what happened.

  As quickly as he could, he popped the trunk, gently placed the boy inside. He would have to clean up the blood later, he knew, but right now, he had to act fast. Get the hell out of there before someone drove by or the boy’s parents came calling for him.