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Careful With That Axe, Eugene

The Inamorata Mixtape


She hangs up her cell phone and pulls out a Marlboro Seventy-Two. She taps the filter against her lighter, tap-tap-tappity-tap, "Eugene will be here in a bit."


"He's my roommate. Don't worry, he's cool. He takes all my pictures. He's the only guy I trust."

"So um, let me get this straight. We have sex, your roommate photographs us doing it, then you post those pictures on your homepage…for anyone to view."

"Yeah, and jerk off to if they want. Whatever. It's their dollar, right?" She lights her cigarette, "You see Romeo, technically they're not just anyone. They're paying customers. They pay for access. It's not my homepage, it's my website. It's a business." She pulls a drag then exhales, "They pay my rent, do you understand?"

I nod.

"Don't hurt yourself. You're gonna need that."

I've already hurt myself but I'm not going to let that stop me. I feel too good. I've been jerking myself off non-stop for who-knows-how-long. Betty probably knows but I'm afraid to ask. I'm excited, it feels good, I don't want to stop.

Or maybe, "I can't stop."

"You're tweaking. You can keep playing with it if you want to just don't cum. I'm gonna need you full for my money shot. Go drink some pineapple juice or something."

"I don't have pineapple juice."

"Whatever—go drink some water or a beer or some Kool-Aid. I don't fucking care. Just drink something."

"I don't think I can cum right now even if I wanted to. And believe me, I want to. But I just don't think I'm gonna—is it possible? I mean, what the hell?"

I'm so confused.

"That's the meth talking," she puts her cigarette to her mouth, "Just try to relax. Here," she pats the cushion next to her, "sit down. Try to relax a little. Enjoy yourself…you'll come, but remember—and this is important—you come only when I tell you to come."

I want to sit but I can't seem to get to the couch.

My hand has a mind of its own.

My dick has a life of its own.

"What the fuck is in that shit? Viagra?"

She laughs, "No, red phosphorous probably. Good stuff, huh?" She pats the couch again, "Come on, Romeo. I'll play with your cock for you. And by the way your cigarette's out."

"I need another one."

"Then come and get it."

"When can I kiss you?"

"When Eugene gets here."

The fantasy of a girlfriend.

The reality of a stripper.


"My roommate…Jesus."

Step, forward, walk, movement, stop-stop-stop, I don't want to stop, it feels too good to stop. "I want to kiss you." Sit, sit down, sit down now. I never thought my couch could feel so soft. So good. "Th-that feels nice."

"Let go. Here, have a smoke."

She hands me her pack of Marlboro Seventy-Twos. I drop my cold butt into the ashtray and pull one of her cigarettes out of the pack. I put it to my lips, "I want to kiss you," but I don't think she heard me because she's got one hand at the base of my cock and two lips, painted fuck-me red, over the top of it. "That feels so good. You have no idea." I light my cigarette and exhale. "I think I like meth."

She pulls up to massage while she sucks, massages and sucks, sucks and massages, and sucks some more. It feels good, so good the way she does it, the way she gives head. But I want to touch it, I want to taste what she's tasting. I want my cock in my mouth, my tongue twirling around, fighting with hers.

"I need to kiss you."

She sits up, "When Eugene gets here you can do anything you want. But until then you're all mine."

She goes back down and I remember I have a cigarette hanging in my mouth and I don't want this one to go out too so I inhale and reach up to pull it from my lips.

My hand is shaking.

She looks up at me, my hard cock pressed against her cheek the way my mother's face was pressed against the tin frame of her toilet. "Oh, and don't freak out okay, but he's a drag queen."


"Jesus-fucking-Christ, Chase. Eugene. My roommate."

"Oh, yeah. That's cool."

"So if he shows up in drag, make sure you call him Lady Indika and not Eugene. He's pretty uppity about that sort of thing."

"Sure, Lady Indika. Whatever you say. Got it." I reach down and take hold of my cock and push it back into her mouth, "I'll call him the queen of fucking England if you just don't stop." She goes back to work on me and begins to hum and it feels so good that I have to know, need to know, "What? What is that? What are you humm—oh shit. Wh-what’re you humming?"

Pop! "The Rainbow Connection."


I push her head back down.


Lady Indika comes out of the bathroom, the toilet flushing behind her. "I'm ready when you are, sweetheart," she says to Betty. She looks at me, "Everything okay, stud?"

Betty answers for me, "He says he's not buying the fantasy."

Lady Indika rolls her eyes. "Honey, are you an artist?"

"Actually I work in customer—"

"No." She cuts me off with a wave of her hand and the inflection only a drag queen can master. Lady Indika, Eugene Milam in drag, she's got her hands on her hips, "I am. Look, I am not some low-rent pornographer. I am a pathological shutterbug, okay? Just do what you're told and no one will get hurt."

"But all of this drug paraphernalia, it just isn't me."

That first hit of meth Betty gave me has begun to wear off. I want more. I was so close to coming in her mouth. I wanted her to suck me until I did. I wanted her to swallow me whole. I wanted her to kiss me afterward.

Tweaking on meth I felt like I could do anything. I didn't care. But now, coming down, my joints are all sort of achy and my jaw is tender and there's some sort of paste or coating on the inside of my mouth and tongue. I feel a little tired and my dick hurts.

I'm feeling a little vulnerable.

And then there was a knock at the door and I forgot all about Eugene, or rather Lady Indika, and I'm not so sure I'm up for this anymore. Eugene, I mean Lady Indika, she brought a five-foot bong into my apartment. Every hippie color of the rainbow is swirled on it. I thought we were going to smoke some weed and party, which I'm totally down for, but apparently the giant bong is just a prop.

For show.

The fantasy of reality.

The reality of fantasy.

On the coffee table is a small hand mirror, a few lines of baby powder strategically placed on it in seven successive lines. The worst part of the whole thing are the clothes she's making me wear. Contrary to popular belief, a bisexual man is not just a gay man who lacks fashion sense.

"I don't have anything against Pink Floyd but I don't look like a hippie." I tug at the shirt, "I mean, if you want to go for a hippie-thing, shouldn't I wear some tie-dye? Maybe a Grateful Dead shirt, but Pink Floyd? Besides," I stand up and the jeans she brought fall to my knees, "the clothes don't even fit, man."

"Do you want to back out?" Lady Indika asks me.

I consider my options.

I can fuck a hot stripper and not have to hand over a single dollar so long as our deeds are photographed for others to masturbate to…or I could say no and send the hot stripper, her drag queen roommate, and their camera and equipment home.

Then I could smoke a bowl and jerk off to some porn.

Betty's wearing a headband, beads, and feathers. I can't comprehend what the hell she's supposed to be. She reminds me of Cher circa "Half-Breed."

Lady Indika brought everything with her. The props, the clothes, the artistic ideas. I guess they're seriously serious about this whole Internet porn scam of theirs.

The digital camera’s pretty nice, though.

"Do I get to kiss you?"

"Anything you want, Romeo," Betty smiles.

She proffers me a pinky nail of meth. I shrug and snort it in. Without another word she dips her finger back into the small baggie and scoops out some more. She holds it up for me and I snort it into the other nostril.

She blows a bubble until it pops.

To Lady Indika I say, "She's so much hotter in her nurse's cap and outfit." I rub my nose. "Can't she wear that instead?" I press my fingers against the top of my nose and pull them back, across the sinuses. The drip, it's the worst. The feeling of it as it works its way down the back of your throat, like you've chewed a bunch of aspirin and tried to swallow without anything to wash them down with.

I blink once and snort in a lungful of air and snot.

I blink twice.

Three times.

I offer my artistic interpretation of what I have in mind. My fantasy: "She could be like um, okay! She could be like the nurse who's come to give me my um uh dose of medicinal marijuana and maybe she gets a contact buzz and while she's giving me a sponge bath she gets turned on by my big dick and we fuck like wabbits."

Lady Indika slowly enunciates every word, careful about their meaning so that there is no way I could misinterpret her question, "Do-you-want-out?"

The oversized bong, which I wouldn't mind trying to get a hit off of, the fake coke on the mirror, come to think of it, I could use another hit, oh wait, I just did a bump of crystal.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, the faux-hippie couture.

We'll be totally naked in a couple of minutes anyway. Betty, Nurse Betty, beautiful Nurse Betty, can I turn the fantasy of a rainbow connection into the reality of a love connection?

I say nothing.

Betty ups the ante, "You don't have to wear a rubber."


"I already told you I can't get pregnant. Besides, we've already done it without one."

Lady Indika chimes in, "There's logic for you."

"Yeah, right. So why can't you get pregnant, anyway?"

"Never you mind, Romeo."

Lady Indika asks, "In or out?"

"In, I guess."

"That's my little Romeo!" Betty holds up a little baggie of crystal meth, "We can do a couple lines before we start, if you want to."

"Cool. Yeah, why not?"

Lady Indika smiles and presses play on the CD player. Pink Floyd welcomes me to the new machine of amateur Internet pornography.


"Yes! That's it, honey. Suck him harder."

Lady Indika's camera goes click-whir-click-whir-click and the flash, I didn't think it would be this annoying. And what with her incessant coaching, "I can't concentrate," I complain.

"Get used to it, sexy," Lady Indika says as she snaps more pictures. Click-whir-click-click. "Shit!" she says. "Hang on, I have to change memory cards."

Betty lifts her head up, a string of saliva connects her chin to my flaccid and bruised penis. "This won't be exciting for anyone." She reaches for the small hand mirror, "Here, do another line."

"Baby powder."

"Oh, fuck. That's right."

She stands up, stretches, grabs her pack of cigarettes and lights two at the same time. She hands me one, leaves the other in her mouth and digs out a small baggie from inside of the pack. She dips a pinky in and pulls out a small mound. She snorts it in, dips in for a second helping, goes in for a third and then puts it to my nose.

Before I inhale the small mound in through my right nostril, I ask her, "Chef? You mentioned something about a blo—"

"Do you care?"

I do but I shake my head because I think she doesn't want me to. "I guess not."

"Fuck it, then."

"Yeah…fuck it, then." I suck it in and feel it work its magic. Betty dips in for a fourth time and returns with another pinky nail filled with meth. She holds it under my nose and I twist my neck so I can snort it in with my left nostril. I suck in a bunch of air through my nose and pinch my eyes as the drip starts. To take my mind off of the flavor, I inhale a few quick drags off my cigarette to chase the aftertaste.

Lady Indika says, "You were right, girlfriend. He does have the perfect cock for our customers."

"Isn't it, though? It's so cute—I wish I could have it bronzed." Inhale, exhale, "Think it'll be popular?"

Hearing their conversation, my dick gets hard and seeing it, Betty drops her cigarette in the ashtray and says, "Oh fuck yeah, Romeo. That's what I'm talking about," and she goes down on me.

"Hang on you two, I'm not ready yet," Lady Indika fumbles with the cover to the memory slot on the camera.

Pink Floyd never misses a beat and she shoots without taking aim, click-click-click-whir-click-whir. "Okay, let's move a little to the side, honey. I want a close up of his veins." Click-whir-click-whir, "That's it. Slower! Go down on him slower. There you go, more spit. I need more spit."

I jab my cigarette into the ashtray. "I wanna fuck."

"More spit! Come on, girlfriend. He's not glistening." She adds, "Do you need some water?"

"Hello? I thought I got to do what I wanted? What about my kiss?"

Betty stops and looks at me.

Something in her eyes, desire beyond desire, craving, bloodlust, royal blue embers of hatred, "You wanna fuck?"

I nod my head so hard and fast, my dick wobbles back and forth and taps her chin, bap-bap-bap.

Lady Indika says, pleads, "Sweetheart, can't I get a few more fellatio shots before you do? I really think you've got a good looking cock but I just can't seem to, I just can't, I need better lighting, maybe some room to work with. I'm doing the best I can with what I have, is what I'm saying." She shakes her head, "Next time, I'll bring some lights and we'll plan things out better but right now I need to get as much detail as I can."

"Wanna touch it?"

"It's not that good looking. Besides, I only do gay men."

"I'm bi."

"Bisexuality doesn't exist. It's a delusion, sweetheart. You're either straight or gay and if you're straight and think you're gay, you're in what's called a transitional period. But call it bi if it helps you sleep at night." She holds the camera up to my face, real close, then she—click, whir—pops the flash in my eyes.

All around, everywhere I look, all I see are spotty rainbows, blotches of gold and purple, blue and red, indigo memories and crucifixion nightmares. She yells, clapping her hands, "Come on! Back to work, people!" She looks at Betty, "Two more shots, okay honey? Just, can't you give it a good courtesy spit or something? Then go slow. I'll get my shots and you can ride him, okay?"

As my vision comes back into focus, I notice everything has a greenish hue. Betty is still staring at me, one hand firmly wrapped around the base of my erect cock and balls, the other hand rubs her nipples in a tweaker's fury. First the left then the right, then back to the left.

The look she's giving makes me fear for my life.

We'll see just how far you'll go.

I wonder if maybe I won't live to see the end of the rainbow. She clears her throat and spits on my cock, then she drops her head down and I reel from the silkiness from the back of her throat. She hums "Rainbow Connection" as she rises slowly. The camera clicks and whirs wildly. I count at least seven shots beyond the promised two.

Lady Indika, coaching all the while, "Yes, yes. That's it, honey. That's right. Slow. Now! Give him another courtesy spit," and Betty clears her throat and spits on the head of my cock.

Lady Indika cheers, "Yes! That's it!"


I wake up, glad to find Lady Indika has gone, with her larger than life bong and her fake hippie-wannabe clothing. Betty sits in silence on the couch, a cigarette dangles from her lips. Her naked body glows from the few candles she's placed sporadically on the coffee table.

"What time is it?" Outside my windows, Commencement Bay sleeps, a strip of moonlight strokes its soft wake.

"Oh, hi," she smiles, looks at her naked wrist, "No clue, babe." She takes her cigarette and taps a long ash into the ashtray. "Did you sleep okay?"

I scratch my head, "Yeah, I guess." I rub my chin, "My jaw hurts like a son of a bitch, though."

"Yeah, meth will do that to ya. Gotta try not to grind your teeth so much." She puts her cigarette back in her mouth and takes a puff. "You should drink something."

Normally I wouldn't feel so secure about my own nakedness but there's a certain peace in the room. Maybe it's the candlelight, maybe it's her nakedness mirroring my own, maybe it's because we've spent so much of our time together naked.

Maybe it's the lack of a camera's flash.

Or maybe it's because I know her from somewhere.

I take a seat next to her on the couch and think about having a cigarette but then I notice the knife in her hand. "What're you doing?"

She looks at me, then holds up the knife. She says nonchalantly, "Chase, Beavis. Beavis, Chase."

My jaw, sore from grinding my teeth all night, gets a respite when it falls open. I manage to say, "Uh, pleased to, um, meet you?"

What do you say to something like that?

She puts the knife to her forearm and says, "By the way, it's four-twenty…ante meridiem."


She points to the clock on the VCR. "You wanted to know what time it was. It's four-twenty."

I look at the green numbers on the VCR but I can't focus. All I see is a bluish-green blur of nonsense. "In the morning?"

"Yeah, babe. Ante meridiem."

She drags the blade across the soft flesh on the inside of her forearm. Too high up to be a suicide attempt, too slow to be capricious. She pulls the knife away from her arm, I can see the beginning of a small methodical pink scratch.

"So, tell me about one of your girlfriends."

"I don't have any."

She looks at me. "A cute guy like you?"

"I'm not really seeing anyone steady right now."

Call Jared! flashes in my brain like a pop-up window. I hit the delete button, then grab my tobacco pouch from off of the coffee table, and roll a cigarette. "I mean, it's sort of hard, being bi. I can't really be open about my sexuality. No one understands." I add, "No one wants to understand."

"I can see that. It doesn't make sense to me but hey, if sucking cock gets you off, whatever. I like to suck cock, I see the attraction. But I also understand the repulsion." She puts the knife back on the same spot as before, "Most chicks don't like to suck cock. I say they don't know what they're missing. Or doing. Anyhow," she presses the knife down, "tell me about your first girl-crush, bi-boy."

"I never had a crush on a girl, not that I can remember or anything."

She drags the knife, Beavis, slowly across her skin and I wonder for a minute if maybe she's trying to threaten me with it. If I don't give her a good answer, I wonder what she'll do with that knife.

She says, "Come on, don't bullshit me. There had to be one girl."

I shake my head as I lick the cigarette paper.

"I know there was one girl."


"No?" She looks at me point blank and calls me a, "Liar."

I shake my head again. I can't take my eyes off of that knife. "How big is that thing?"

She says clinically, "It is the same size as the average human penis." As she smiles, I light my cigarette. She continues, adding a bit of sensuality to her voice, "This particular blade is five and one half inches long."

"How come you picked me for your pictures? I never thought of myself as being all that endowed."

"That's good…cause you aren't." She adds, "You're average, Romeo." She puts the edge of the knife back on the same spot as before and drags it as slow as her words, "You are five and one half inches long." Looking at me, she smiles and says, "Give or take a centimeter or two."

She takes her cigarette from her mouth to tap the long ash into the ashtray but it falls on her left thigh. She brushes it away, onto my carpet, then she leans forward and extinguishes her cigarette in the ashtray, mashing it more than necessary. "If you want, we can measure you." She holds up the knife and says, "You know, compare?"

"Thanks, but no thanks."

"Have it your way."

After a moment, she says, "Look, I'm not into plastic surgery. I'm not into any of that super pornstar shit. I guess I'm lucky. My tits are au naturel. Most of the girls I work with pay good money for tits like these. Anyway, I think porn is hotter when you get to see the real deal. Flaws and all. Clumsy and embarrassed. Men who aren't eight-plus inches are sexier in my opinion." She laughs, "Don't get me wrong, size matters if you're gonna get off but it just looks freakish…in a cartoony sort of way." Then as an afterthought, "Big cocks feel great but they just aren't visually appealing. Not on film. Porn these days looks like live-action anime."

Beavis goes back for another lick, "I prefer five and one half inches."

"Okay! Can you stop that now? Jesus, you're really starting to freak me out."

"Tell me about your first girlfriend. Come on, I know you've had at least one." The knife goes back down, a little deeper, a little faster, "Every guy has had at least one. Most homos have had at least one girl they tried to fuck. You know, that special someone who confirmed for them that they were gay."

"I can't think of anybody."

She drags the knife faster, presses harder, a trickle of blood comes to the surface. She whispers, "Ah, there it is," as her head rolls back, eyes closed.

"Okay, okay. There was this one girl," I say, plead. "If I tell you about her, will you stop doing that?"

"What was her name?"

I watch Betty cut herself as I try to remember at least one girl I had a crush on. She places Beavis on her forearm again, not on the same place, just a little farther down. She presses when I say, "Janelle." She drags Beavis slowly, deliberately, across her forearm.

Even in the false darkness of apathy, candles everywhere, I can see the new wound slowly turn pink from this one stroke. In my mind I begin to babble, not knowing what to say, not knowing what she's looking for. Nurse Betty's looking at me, a smirk or smile or something more awful. Nothing is coming out of my mouth so I spit out, "Merry Christmas!"

"Quit avoiding the subject."

"But we weren't boyfriend and girlfriend."

"Why not?"

"I guess because we were like twelve or something." She puts Beavis back down on her arm and pulls him across her flesh faster. My stomach starts to turn. I take a long, hard drag off of my cigarette.

She nods, then says, "I'm glad you got over me."


"Don't you remember me? From elementary school?" She pauses, "I remember you."

I shake my head and try to bring her name off the tip of my tongue and into the forefront of my mind but, "I never went to school with anyone named Betty."

"That's because my name wasn't Betty back in the day. It was Ina."

"Ina? But you told me your name was Betty. Betty Morata."

"I changed my name when I ran away." She puts Beavis against her forearm and drags him across, "My name was Ina." Then another slash with the knife and she says, blood trickling, "Now it's Betty."

It takes a moment but then, "Ina? Ina? No fucking way!"

I knew it.

She looks at me and smiles and for a moment I can recall that little girl, blond hair, blue eyes, Hello Kitty-pink lip gloss, lunchbox with matching Thermos.

The fantasy of escape.

The reality of bondage.

"I had the biggest crush on you in kindergarten."

"And in first grade."

"Second grade, too."

"Long time, no see, huh?"

"Wow, you look…you—Jesus Christ you look and act so different. What happened after second grade? You just disappeared."

"We all have to grow up sometime, Chase." She turns her attention back to Beavis and her bleeding forearm. "Yeah…God I hated you so much." Then as an afterthought, "I moved that summer." She takes a moment as Beavis finds a new spot to lick. "You know, lots of kids do it." She pulls Beavis across her skin so hard and fast, so deliberate, a new scratch, a third one appears on the first stroke. "Shit, the first time I decided to fuck a guy, I was twelve."

"I never knew that. You always seemed like such a—"


I nod, inhale, exhale, "Yeah, I guess so."

She smiles, drags Beavis across her forearm again. Blood from the first two scratches start to trickle off her arm. I watch idly as a small teardrop of blood hits her thigh where the ash used to be. "A girl's got to keep up her appearances." A tributary of blood from the third cut finds its way to the first two. They create a bloody peace sign. "Fuck it, it's all about the rainbow connection."

Another drag of the knife across her skin, "I remember Janelle."

"You do?"


She breathes, "Mitch."

Beavis goes back to the beginning of a new scratch and races down again, harder, faster. The blood on her thigh is beginning to pool and coagulate between her other, older scars. "I liked Mitch. Even at twelve he had a big dick, back when I thought big cocks were cool."

"How big could it have been at twelve? I mean, you barely hit puberty at that age."

She looks up from Beavis, up from her cuts, up from her toy soldiers, up from the blood and reverie, "Wanna give it a whirl?" She offers Beavis to me, as if I want to self-mutilate.

"No thanks."

"Suit yourself, Romeo." She turns Beavis back on herself. "Janelle was a tomboy, wasn't she?"

"Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"Didn't she wear nothing but camo?"

I nod, "Yeah, that's her."

"Tell me about her."

"What do you want to know? She took me to an abandoned, burnt out, house."

"What were you doing there?"

"Should I still call you Betty? Because now I want to—"

"My name is Betty."

"Okay. Fine. Sheesh."

I take a puff from my cigarette. After I exhale, "I think we were supposed to make out or something but then she said she had to pee."

"Sounds like Janelle," Ina, I mean Betty, mumbles with a grin. Then she says louder, "Did you watch?" She puts Beavis away and turns her attention to the new reality she's created for herself.

Four bleeding cuts on top of four older scars.


"How did you feel, watching your tomboy-girlfriend pee?"

"She wasn't my girlfriend." After a moment, I shrug, "I don't know. I guess…sort of like how I feel now, watching you cut yourself."

Intrigued, curious, disgusted, fascinated, like a creepy stalker.

"I remember wanting to look away but I couldn't. Like when you drive past an accident on the freeway. You know you don't want to see anything terrible but you look anyways because you want to see something terrible."


"Yeah, uh…whatever. Anyway, I remember watching her. I never seen a girl pee before, except when my mother left the bathroom door open. But Janelle just said, ‘I gotta go, hang on a sec’ and she walked away and not like into the bathroom or anything. The building was all tore up and burnt up and everything was charcoal and black and smelled like a mixture of dead cat and rotten pork. She just walked over to the other end of the room, pulled down her camouflage pants and then, and then, um…she just squatted."

I take a drag off my cigarette and inhale deeply. I exhale and take in another drag. Finally I say, "She watched me watch her." I look at Betty's four bleeding cuts, "The entire time, all she did was smile. Then I heard the sound, you know, of her peeing. I looked and there it was, coming right out of her, this short dripping stream of pee."

I take a final drag off of my cigarette then jab it into the ashtray and shake my head. "Anyhow, when she was done she pulled her pants up and came back over to where I was sitting and said, Okay, I'm ready. I froze. I couldn't touch her. It's not like she wiped, right? I mean, I'm not in the wrong here. Anyway, I didn't want to touch her after that. I felt terrible because there we were, sitting in this disaster of a house and we were supposed to make out and stuff but all I could think about was the fact that she didn't wipe or wash her hands and there was no way I was going to kiss her." Inhale, exhale, "It was like, it was just sort of weird, seeing it come out of her, uh her—"


"Well, I'd never seen one before. Not really. Anyhow I couldn't bring myself to touch her, let alone kiss her."

"What happened next?" she asks as she pushes an index finger into the first cut.

"I ran home. I left her there and ran home to my mother. She called me later. I told her I couldn't see her anymore."

A silence.

A void.

"I should've told her I didn't want to see her anymore, but what can you do?"

"Mitch was an early bloomer. Some kids, they hit puberty by nine. By the time they're twelve, they're all man…just like Mitch."


A moment passes and I say, "I should get you a bandage or something, huh?"

"Thanks." I stand up but stop short when she says, "Hey." I turn around and look at her. For the first time, I see true sincerity in her baby blue eyes. She says softly, "Thank you for all those stupid notes you used to give me. I was such a bitch. I thought you were a geek. Anyway, you really turned out to be a pretty sweet guy."

"Sure, uh…no problem."

I turn around, wondering what I could fetch for her. Some tissue, a bandage, maybe a Band-Aid. Maybe I should call 911. I'm not really sure what she needs.

Maybe an ice pack?

Perhaps a different childhood?

"In my bag, I've got some stuff in there." She picks up a tissue from the coffee table and wipes the blade. "In fact just hand me my bag. I need the rubbing alcohol, too."

"Yeah, sure." I grab her gym bag and bring it to her. "Are you going to be okay?"

She smiles, "I'm fine. No worries. I'm gonna crash, I've gotta work later." She digs in her bag, pulls out a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and dabs the tissue with it. She wipes Beavis down, neglecting her cuts and scratches like a dream about a golden crucifix.

"Yeah, I gotta work in a few hours, too. I should get some more sleep." I scan the coffee table and see my pipe and film canister. I load a bowl and pull a few hits. As I begin to feel a little more relaxed and in a little less pain, I lean back and close my eyes. I take another hit and hold it in until I'm tapped on the shoulder.

I open my eyes and Betty's standing over me. She hands me a business card. From its edges, it's obvious it was printed on a home computer. "That's the address for my website. Check it out when you get a chance. Eugene should have our session online in a few hours."

I look at the card.

The fantasy of

The reality of

I'm not sure if I should be flattered or offended. All I can say is, "Thanks, I guess." On the back of the card is her handwritten scrawl.

She points to the handwriting, "That's your account info. It’s case sensitive so don't lose it."

The card reads:



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