I suffer from a terror of the ordinary.

Some women fake orgasms.
I simulate intensity.
Yet somewhere in the midst of a thrillkill simulation I discover that I am experiencing something for real.
And someone will suffer for this.

Violate my darkest precincts.
Kill me with your kisses.
Slaughter me with love.

But I am deceiving myself. I have no heart. It's already been ripped out by a wolf. I'm a heartless feral bitch mutant. Shallow as a grave. Just take me out and shoot me.

All the boys I choose look like River Phoenix in Stand By Me. Slender twelve year old muscles, soft babyflesh cheeks and chins, tight white t-shirts accentuating boytits with tiny pink nipples, small dicks which harden easily, silky tangled hairs not thick enough to hide any secrets.

They're easy to fuck, even easier to kill. Their golden skin slits so smoothly. Crisper than the cleanskin chardonnays I'm so partial to.

I play with the riverboys before I take them, sliding my hands into their too loose pants, cradle their balls in a pretence of tenderness, encircle their sweet-smelling cocks with my long pale fingers, making them sit before me, kneel before me, demanding that they touch, pull, tug, wank, jerk, toss, beat, fuck themselves stupid.

Pretty vacant dead white boys.
Bellies covered with their final rapture.