An Epistle from Elsewhere

The first thing you should know about me, dear reader, is that I have no tolerance for stupidity of any kind. These days ignorance runs so rampant that one must wonder whether anyone will be able to rein it back in when its time for play finally expires; it seems to have no intention of returning to its lowly cave once the current fury resides. Ah, you would think that in voicing these concerns for the well-being of the outside I reveal a humanitarian side of myself. Do not be dissuaded: you will find no such adumbration in my writhing figure. No, I am only concerned with myself and the little life I have built for myself in this hole. One must look out for oneself these days and can hardly ask for much more.

The worst part about isolation, such as the one in which I have enclosed myself, I have concluded, is that everyone else only takes you for some poor sufferer of paranoia. They do not even have the wit anymore to realize that your bitterness is totally your desire, that you want nothing more than to cut yourself off from the world of docile bodies up above, and they insist on offering you their pity. In olden days someone like me would be cast out to the far edges of town and left alone. Parents would tell their children that some strange young rascal lives over yonder, my boy, and if you love me then you will promise not ever to throw the disc around anywhere near there, and if you should find yourself approached by anyone you will get yourself back home immediately. But now those gameplaying children have become the parents and, forgetting the better advice their fathers offered them, instead laugh from a distance while the little runts throw their pebbles.

But I am not so self-centered to think I can escape this hamlet of rubble completely by my own means. That is how a cycle begins, no doubt. So I have enrolled at the local university, the filth of which I can only assume is typical of all such institutions on this side of the tundra. The proud man might say that to enroll in a place like that, even if it receives no public funding, is to compromise one's principles, which then become no principles at all, but mere guests of fancy, coming and going as they please. But to hell, I say, with the vanity of principles and maxims. The man of action has no time for such philosophical jargon.

And yes, while it may surprise you, dear reader, I consider myself such a man. I no sooner smother my passions than let them guide me to enact them, no sooner act on them than betray them for another, more delectable wish. If you do not believe me in how I characterize myself there is simply nothing I can do about it, but if you are only the slightest bit skeptical, only in need of a light nudge to tip you into my discipleship, than I have a story that will surely demonstrate my claims to being a man of action, which would of course be most appropriate for me to actualize.

Like I said, I have been wasting away the time at the local university, where I have actually done quite well for myself in rising to the near-top of my class. I would not have to hyphenate my ranking if I was not being constantly distracted by the awful men and women with whom I must share the lecture halls. If they would allow me merely a moment of silence I would float like a stray bit of ash up past even the brightest of them, but how can one hardly expect such a courtesy these days? I am slipping, I realize, into language that is all too poetical, and there is no one to blame but those awful texts they dare to call the constituents of a worthy curriculum. Excuse me while I take a brief moment to pour a drink and rid myself of these poor habits.

*

Looking back on what I have written so far, I realize I may have lost some of you along the way. A part of me relishes in this, delights in it, insofar as my lack of brevity has weeded out the more ignorant men and women in the audience. But on the other hand it pains me to think of the time I have already wasted in providing such autoaffectionate literary exposition. Sometimes, I have not failed to notice, I have a tendency to be the slightest bit obtuse, but let me make amends immediately in rendering to you the example I promised, hopefully not to long ago.

There is this loathsome young woman, if one can use the term so loosely, in one of my classes who goes by the name of Kit. You can tell, I am sure, from the very beginning how disgusting a creature she is, with a name like that, one that practically smacks you on the head with its simplicity, its consonants that mimic the sound of a wooden block being dropped on another, if only to strangle the ear strings of anyone nearby. Kit has black hair that is never quite fixed right, as if she were a flustered raven too blind to fly during the nighttime. This impression is compounded by her large, round glasses with dark frames to match her colorless hair, the both of them seemingly serving only to provide relief to the redness of her perpetually swollen lips. Like two tiny shrimp they sit there on her putrid face, just waiting to exude the saliva she can never quite keep in her mouth. She is of slim figure, but breasts not well-endowed by even the most generous of margins, and her skin would be considered pale even in the northernmost colonies of the tundra. And perhaps all these offenses would be worthy of divine forgiveness were it not for her whining, nasal, raspy voice that so often disturbs my work, probably in addition to that of any honest laborer with a half mile.

Kit really never does shut up, especially about her sex life, which she claims is active but everyone knows is filled with the dirtiest, vilest scoundrels at best. She is also intolerably fond of relating everything to feminism and the latest drivel her blogs have dumped out; at least half of our class time has been dedicated to her ramblings.

Anyway, one day in the library Kit approached me, and started complaining about our professor. Barely listening, I tried to ignore her and continue with my work so I could get home as soon as possible, but she would not stop running her mouth. Just at that moment one of those passions popped into my head and manifested a terrible idea, likely straight from the mouth of the most despicable demon. I asked the vile girl if she would like to join me for dinner, probably with the deepest intentions of mocking her, but she immediately accepted and even seemed enthused at the possibility of naming me the next day as the latest of her gentlemanly suitors.

We started for the parking lot, beginning a seemingly infinite span of time in which Kit proceeded to bestow her thoughts upon me regarding our latest coursework. After this eternity, which on my part consisted mostly of nodding and making indiscriminate noises of approval, we had taken my car all the way across the village and arrived at my quarters. Entering the code I held the door for her—an act of chivalry that no doubt had as its source the same garbage that the poetical discourse did earlier—and followed her inside. She could not find the light switch, even though it obviously was in the most typical of places, just to the right of the entryway.

Having already demonstrated her stupidity, Kit then ushered an even further insult with a cheeky bit of sarcasm about how "clean" I kept my place, which was obviously incredibly messy, it not usually occurring to me to have guests over. I tidied up a bit while Kit offered another rude gesture, this time in making herself comfortable on the couch and sitting, of course, with her legs in a position that even the poorest of harlots would describe as immodesty. Looking at her I felt so much hatred that I began to feel dizzy, and took a moment's rest in the reclining chair adjacent the couch, which any sane person would have realized as an effort not to sit too close to the cocky young girl. Both of us being twenty one years of age you would think we could have a normal conversation supported by proper manners, but of course such things mean nothing to anyone these days.

Kit must have got it in her head that there was some ulterior motive that had provoked me to invite her here, one that even I was utterly aware of, as, with a new glaze of wetness on her chapped lips, she crawled over to the recliner and sat on the arm rest. My body welled with such hatred that it must have mutated into a passion so intense that it confused itself for attraction, because I presently found myself picking the girl up and throwing her onto the couch, climbing on top of her and feeling my hands around her slender, pale body. She smiled, showing her pointy, despicable teeth, and said she was surprised I contained myself in the car earlier, a comment that I could not make sense of until afterwards. She leaned into me and mangled my lips with hers, but I hated her so much, I could not help but reciprocate. I took her raven-colored hair and gave a firm pull, but this only seemed to excite her more, as she began rolling her hips upward, grinding on me. I pinned her down and started biting at her neck, but she broke free and before I knew it she was on top of me, with a devious little grin on her face at having overcome my strength, a fault likely due entirely to the strange angle at which we were laying. I must admit with her grinding and grabbing at me there was nothing I could do to prevent the situation in my jeans, a development she had not failed to take notice of. I realized that we were much too far into things, and everything started to seem like the beginning of one of those horrible messes that torments you for months at a time. Disgusted as I was, I knew the situation would only worsen for me in the long run if I put things to an abrupt stop. Plus, I am not too proud a man to admit that I was starting to need again the touch of a woman—if, after all, you can regard this vile, whiny creature as such.

It was almost delightful, our tongues carnally tangling each other up, her saliva coating my lips, the sort of pleasure one gets from totally debasing oneself; by virtue of the absurd I was feeling up the girl I hated with my whole heart, as if it were precisely the impossibility and undesirability of such a situation that made it so delectable. To indulge in something forbidden by a higher authority can be thrilling, but to indulge in something forbidden by one's self, by one's superego, was an invigorating defiance unlike any other. My hands were slipping up her shirt and feeling her soft breasts, caked with a thin layer of sweat from her long day at school. And no, she was not wearing a bra, but given my earlier description of her, one should find this totally unsurprising.

She would not stop shoving her slithering little tongue into my mouth, except to bite her malformed teeth down on my lower lip, which never failed to give me a bit of a jolt. I was so focused on trying to find a brief moment in which I might wipe her slobber off my face, so that at least her kisses might be a little firmer, that I did not notice she had completely unbuttoned my flannel shirt; what ultimately brought my attention to this fact was that she began to scratch me with her filthy, pointy fingernails. I could practically feel my blood boiling, so to speak, at the liberties she was taking with me, and I immediately concluded that someone had to put this little devil in her place.

I pulled her onto the floor text to the couch and climb on top of her, tearing open her shirt and giving her breasts a rough squeeze, before tearing her glasses from her face and throwing them against the wall. She screamed in delight and pulled my head downwards by the back of my hair, biting my tongue in her mouth as I pinched her little pink nipples. The floor was hard and cold but that did not stop me from tossing her loathsome head against the tile, provoking her to scream and deliver a rough slap to my cheek, but it was all in good fun for her, or whatever fetishized bullshit she would call it. Her hand found its way to the button of my jeans and, being the little slut she is, she had no trouble undoing it even as I dove my lips into her neck and let the weight of my body sink into her.

Apparently not being one for foreplay, she slid both my jeans and briefs to my knees with a single tug, only to kick them away. What she did make me gag: she held her hand in front of her mouth and spit all over it, as if she were disposing of a worn out wad of gum, and then squeezed the tip of my cock with her little hand, poking her fingernails into me. You would think someone who has so much sex would be a little better at it, but Kit was not one to not disappoint. Anyway, to avoid another spitting episode, I decided to advance things further, reaching for her pants. I pulled off her jeans along whatever freakish underwear she was wearing (I dared not look) and she looked into my eyes—with that batshit crazy expression you see in only the most empty minded of individuals—and flashed me that horrible sharp-toothed grin, all her teeth white except one terribly yellow one.

My hand slipped down between her legs and felt her sex, wet and warm but covered in little hairs, as black as the hair on her head. I reached for the condoms I kept in a little drawer in the table adjacent the couch, but she slapped me again and pulled my hips towards her. In the heat of the moment the prospect of pushing her away, retrieving the condom, ripping it open, trying to figure out which side had the more lubricant—it all seemed very tedious, so I just went for it. I slid my cock into her and pinned her down by her biceps, slowly rolling my hips back and forth as she followed my rhythm. She was quite tight down there—it is a myth, after all, that loose girls like her have correspondingly loose you know whats—but she kept making these horrible faces, and pulling at the back of my neck, and our chests made that awful suction-like sound. All of this made me very angry, so I fucked her harder, and harder, and she slapped my behind like the little freak she is.

I tried to finish the grotesque act off as soon as possible, but having to either look at her face or close my eyes and lose my balance on top of her was a horrible dichotomy. I went harder and harder, but none of it seemed good enough for her, and just as the tone of embarrassment began to ring in my chest, I felt my member begin to pump inside her, the incredibly sticky feeling being quite horrible. Immediately I felt disgusted with myself and rose up off the floor. Dutifully she climbed onto the couch and covered herself with a blanket, flashing me one last stupid, idiotic grin.

It seemed like she started to doze off, so I shut off the living room light and locked myself in my bedroom, where I began to write this, in hopes that if I emptied my head of it before I went to sleep, I might wake up to find that nothing of the sort had happened at all.