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An Introduction to the Filthy As Fuck Trilogy

A Chapbook
Patrick PattersonCarroll

The 1974
A chapbook


Fetish Atlas



Fetish Atlas
On the Significance of the 1974 Atlas ............................................................................................................... 3 Bukake ................................................................................................................................................................. 4 Mudding…………………………………………………………………………………………………………6 Gisele and Jonny in Brazilian Girls……………………………………………………………………………9 Ascending a Double-Decker Staircase…………………………………………………………………………24 Squirting………………………………………………………………………...26 Mudding…………………………………………………………………………31 Why the 1974 Atlas Doesn’t Mean Shit………………………………………..33


On the Significance of the 1974 Atlas.
child who is without friend one outside of his dealings with peers in school spends much of his time alone in his room watching TV on his 13’ black & white screen, sitting in the middle of his bed with paper & pen & pencil & crayons & his 1974 Atlas. Only natural that he’s a dreamer, employing those imaginary escape hatches in his loneliness, traveling the globe even if it’s only on paper; a paper drastically differing from its current reality. See, it’s 1994 now. The instability in Africa seems to render any freshly minted atlas obsolete (to say nothing of one that is twenty years old) and the fall of the Berlin Wall five years ago has unified Germany and the U.S.S.R is a sickly old bitch, wasting away into several nations as a result of the demise of (capital C)


Communism. The

child is almost autistic in his commitment to his vision of the atlas; enjoying tracing maps onto paper and giving already established nations new names and languages; imagining new cultures and customs but only to a superficial degree that is revelatory of his illunderstanding of linguistics and his neglect at the consideration of international relationships and their corresponding histories. This is to admit that his grasp of politics was lacking; nowhere more evident than in his drawing of Indochina where he has renamed Cambodia without taking the same measures with her neighbors so that he has created an alternate reality where Cambodia is something else entirely, and Vietnam and Laos &c. remain unmolested, their origins and trajectories altered somewhat dramatically. None of these facts really matter to him. He is simply fascinated by what exists in the atlas and what he can replace it with on paper (or in the atlas itself, for that matter); an imaginary nation-builder with no interests to consider and no real impact for which to be held responsible.


U.S.A (by way of Japan), 2008
They stood over her all five, stroking their cocks as she had requested in the personal ad. There were five of them: all older men with less-than-average size penises. None of them, however, were Japanese for the truth is that (at least in one study; citation largely unnecessary due to the triviality of this “truth”) the average penis size in Japan is actually slightly larger than that found in the states. Yes, she was prepared to take all comers; her kneecaps lovingly pressing themselves into a cushion strategically placed on the hardwood floor for to serve as buffer between the unstoppable force of her weight and the immovable object that so kept them from disappearing into some abyss. All she could hear was the heaving of sweaty chests from labored breathing and the snapping of skin as liver-spotted uncut members were yanked all around her with zest. Her firm, D-cup breasts with their alluringly puffy areolae rested firmly on nothing; her white cotton panties betrayed only the slightest hint of a camel’s toe. One of the men became excited and ran the crown of his cock against her lips, but she would not suck him as that was not part of the deal. She instead grabbed him and jerked him to climax. His seed; sticky, smelly, and yellowish like imitation butter pumped onto her lips in two contractions. Seeing this, another of the guys drizzled his jizz onto her shoulder. Soon after that, the third guy sprayed clear ejaculate onto her tits, giving them a beautiful glaze like a painting in a museum. The fourth guy began to squeak with each fist pump around his shaft and eased his way closer to her, shooting four pearly streams of semen onto her face, two of them landing artfully over each eye, forcing her to keep them shut as the fifth guy came in her hair. She dripped with male DNA there on her floor. The men snapped photos while laughing and bloviating and when they were finished; satisfied; they told her she was a good girl. She was proud. They dressed and left. She smoked a cigarette on her balcony and smiled, pleased with herself because even though she didn’t get paid, she finally got to live out the fantasy that she’d fetishized; masturbating endlessly to internet videos of men using


women as cum dumpsters. She had become that which she had feared or believed she had feared the most: The But she loved it. Later she lay in bed with her laptop to pen her latest essay for a leftist website: Fetish as a Commodity and how Women Lo(o)se. In it, she argued that women should engage in fetishistic behavior not for financial gain, but for hedonistic value (“don’t let lust lie dying on the stretcher of life”). Her thinking went that a woman who filled her pockets with lucre in exchange for the indulgence of sexual depravities only negated her natural urge to explore. It created a “highest bidder”/“how green is your desperation (?)” standard, thus devaluing the art of raw human connection because it relied on transaction instead of extemporaneity and discovery by way of curiosity. The essay was never published.



Mudding U.S.A 1989
They’d both turned six on the same day. Her parents threw her a birthday party with balloons and cake and ice cream and a clown and friends and flowers and fun; his mother didn’t throw him shit. Why? Because he was a bad fucking boy, that’s why. Birthday festivity deprivation had become the leitmotif of his young existence because every year it never failed that with his birthday on the horizon like the sun greeting all the aged early-risers and winos (sometimes these groups become indistinguishable from one another), it was inexorable that he’d find some way to fuck up any chance of getting to celebrate it with his friends. And this particular year, that inevitability was actualized, as he was the bad fucking boy who was fingered by his fascistic overseers for punching a girl in the face because she had committed the awful transgression of yanking at his curly locks. At his invocation of the self-defense defense, he was gently reminded that girls are not the same as boys and that they should never be struck for any reason. His sore scalp believed otherwise. Priscilla was the name of the girl who shared a birthday with him and she had long, tangled black hair and skin almost as black as that, but her eyes—black in equal proportion to her it seemed—were like those of the beautiful women in those martial arts films he loved to watch. The latter details were more important to him than the former one which only made him a little jealous that he had to share (even more that she was able to freely celebrate while he had to settle for gifts and family company—imagine that!), and he liked her. It was a feeling he couldn’t adequately describe, but he knew it was good, which explains why he relished playing it out and comporting himself within the context of games like doctor (as many generations of humans heretofore did and will continue to do; the expression of curiosity a most important trait amongst our kind), and family, a game they played using her little brother as their son. Knowing why he enjoyed playing the game, he wasn’t sure why she took pleasure in it, only assuming that she liked bossing boys around because what girl didn’t (?)! Monsoon season in Texas. Monsoon season in Texas. Monsoon season in Texas. Monsoon season. Monsoon season. Monsoon season. Monsoon. Monsoon. Monsoon.

7 (In other words, it rained like a motherfucker or it rained in equal proportion to a sunny day in Texas.) He and Priscilla—in between games of family that were highly dependent and centered on the lugging around of her little brother and holding hands and smelling her breath and catching (and then later stealing) glimpses of her pink panties under her dresses and that one time he saw her little curtains of varying shades of carmine and brown and were closed to court darkness; an enigma wrapped not yet in another enigma but in shame, and he was still too young to be anything other than be curious about it—one day found themselves asses planted in the mud that had pooled in the court-yard. The first thing he wanted to do as his lower extremities were submerged in the heaviness of the mud and rainwater was cry because his mother told him to never play in the mud as she was the one who had to do laundry, and Priscilla, seeing that he was on the verge of tears (how very perceptive of her!) told him not to cry because that’s what babies do. So they sat there in the cold mud, the rain washing down on them like even colder, cheap booze down his uncle’s throat or like diarrhea down his friends legs a few years later (not that he ever dwelled on the future aside from the larger concepts that all adults seemed to insist on pressing upon him). He should’ve found excitement in the moment, but instead only fear rested in his eyes while boredom seemed to inhabit hers. Perhaps it was his mood that was killing hers. Quiet; all that could be heard was the drip-drop of the Monsoon. With the knowledge that her beautiful dress had more than likely been ruined by this tiny impetuosity, she launched into a Cruella-esque cackling that alarmed the raindrop beaten silence about them. Oh, he was in trouble and he knew it! Priscilla figured she would be; it’s just that she didn’t care. What could her mother do to her? Yell in Spanish? The idea of that wasn’t enough to discourage her from doing much of anything, not to mention (as I am here) that her father ever contented himself in the imbibing of beer and the cultivation of masculine camaraderie and bravado (betting his buddies on how quickly his dog could kill a defenseless kitten & other horrors), so it was almost as if she didn’t exist, and the freedom gained from that sort of familial setup was certain to do her no favors in the future. Maybe. She picked herself up and held out her hand for him. Using this hand outstretched, he pulled himself up and they inspected themselves, the rain beating upon them, rinsing the droplets of mud from their faces. He didn’t like the fear motivated exhilaration he felt. It made him queasy, but if he had to, he didn’t mind upchucking (because fetishes begin at early ages, and this would be a prominent theme in his romantic dealings). It was the sweetest catharsis even though he didn’t yet have the vocabulary to assign that word to his impression of the act. “Hey, I have an idea,” she said suddenly. “What?” “Since we’re gonna be in trouble anyway, let’s just get really dirty!” Quietude became him; his gaze locked in some distant space. She kept trying to bore her eyes into his and all-the-while doing that shrug + downward gawp into his field of vision that was indicative of wanting for an immediate answer. He’d never really considered pushing the envelope before. It was his mother. She was scary. She used her flip-flops. She pulled hair. And really, there was no limit to what he believed she could do, and as a result, he had to think before every action (not that he thought very critically) because the ramifications of whatever he chose to do in a given situation were endless. One time she broke his favorite toy airplane right in front of his monsooning eyes

8 because he had broken one of her treasured knick-knacks. In short, she was mom and mom was

And so it was that they stood longingly over the gleaming brownness in the middle of the courtyard. Priscilla turned to him and they grinned at one another. He knew not the motivation for his grin, but she knew hers and she didn’t tell. It was a secret. But he could feel it. Something. The excitement welled within him like a horny teenager’s first orgasm. They clasped hands and intended to dive in on the count of three but dove in on two instead. They were covered in mud head-to-toe now. Crawling to their feet as if being born anew, they looked to one another and giggled, sharing in that beautiful moment when two people become intertwined by experience that might morph to interest. Her teeth, gaps between all like broken out windows in an abandoned building, shined at him from ‘twixt her lips. She appealed to him in a way he couldn’t describe. It reminded him of when he first saw the blooming flower (an exhausting cliché to be sure but all-the-same in fealty to his youthful curiosities) tucked into her undercarriage. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was seeing and what its function was or how it related to what he had not neatly stashed in the midst of his own thighs, but it excited him in a way that confused him (still too young!); the intrigue of self and other making him higher than the bad actors in those stupid D.A.R.E. commercials where kids were used as pawns in a political game that benefitted no one anybody could see and only reinforced the idea that children need to be constantly proselytized with respect to what is best for them when youth is a time for exploration. He viewed her as someone akin to his mother. Not in a maternal sense; she was a girl too, but all the same, they couldn’t be more different. They looked different, acted different and smelled different. He searched Priscilla top-to-bottom, and never returning to his feelings on the somatic, philosophic and olfactory aspects of her complete whole, he perceived the mud on her arms, her legs, her face, in her hair and couldn’t ignore it in those same places on his own person. It was the most exhilarating thing he’d ever done, which wasn’t saying a lot because he hadn’t done much in his six years. Suddenly she grabbed his hand and pulled him to his front door. Before he could protest she knocked. His mom opened the door and Priscilla smiled innocently, greeting her.


Gisele & Jonny In

Brazilian Girls
2003, U.S.A


All she had to do was pretend that she was fresh off a flight from Rio. Simple enough. She hadn’t actually lived in Rio since she was a child, but she’d been back several times and could still do enough of a Carioca twang to fool any dumb ass American. She was told to choose a name. She decided that she would use Gisele. She was warned that she might be degraded but that she’d be rewarded handsomely for the inconvenience.

Jonny was turning 18 in a week and all he wanted to do was fuck a girl. In this regard, his older brother had a surprise for him. For months he’d been in on the ground floor of FUCKMOBILE.COM, a website dedicated to fucking in moving vehicles. The premise, contrived though it was, was this:


Actresses (an assignation used only in the loosest of manners) would pretend to be random girls on the street picked by one the guys in the vehicle to be fucked by a stranger. In this case, Jonny would be the stranger.

Gisele: Accepting the terms set forth, she donned her best skirt: a little red number with white polka-dots and matching heels. Underneath she wore black panties but no bra. Perhaps she should have though, because she was a C-cup with areolae that covered the entirety of the face of her tits.

Facing her reflection, she preened like the young girl that she used to be,
G i s e l e:
admiring the woman that she had become; the boys who had rejected her because of her lack of vontade (will) to put-out now men probably fat and greying fathering children to women who would never be as pretty as herself.

Oh, how she reveled!



met with a guy named Shawn at a coffee shop downtown. Shawn had company. He was a big black guy who called himself simply: The Driver. “I’ll take you where you wanna go,” he said before laughing a big, booming laugh almost like a movie villain overly satisfied with his/her evil. Shawn gave her the details and told her where she would wait for them. He told her that they’d pick her up, introduce her to the stranger (who was his little brother), exchange some pleasantries and then, eventually, get down to business. It was stated that she’d be paid $1,500 upon completion of the act.

While most guys his age were predominantly diagnosed with YELLOW FEVER , Jonny was a different story. He preferred the attentions of the Latin girls he went to school with; this apparent when perusing his internet browser history:

 

you are a sad, lonely boy, said his friend Tina. Tina was unattractive but she was also a lesbian who had already used her tongue to spelunk the wet cavern between the ass cheeks of the fat girl in homeroom. In fact, right before Tina herself, this girl was the fattest. In compiling a list of characteristic attributes, Tina could have been described as portly, homely, and hirsute but altogether charming. That’s what Jonny liked about her. That’s why he would help her with her English homework.



Though they were both competing in the same field of sexual conquest and surrender, he didn’t feel threatened by her presence because she was not competition and she amused him (!) with witticisms like “find her, fuck her, forget her” because of course he wasn’t 18 yet, so anything remotely pleasant to the ears (not speaking of euphony) about sex (and with a fucking meter, no less!) seemed of the utmost relevance. She was at his computer Charles Bukowski (her one she’d bothered to his stuff was all about women) when she bar which revealed the words working on a paper about favorite writer—really the only read only because Jonny said being drunk and fucking accidentally hit the history several visits to websites with

THE DRIVER was scanning her with his big eyes; sizing her up. And though she found him unattractive, she basked in the dullness of his gaze. He said nothing but, “girl, you are the sexiest I’ve seen in weeks.” For this she thanked him, flush with the easy radiance of the compliment; the words so routine, so basic, so every day, so consistently uttered from the dry lips of poorly dressed men that they should’ve had zero meaning in the grand scheme of shallow praises, but she was positively giddy.







Jonny’s proclivities were with the rite-of-passage should’ve been obvious to hidden beneath a veneer laughed at him knowingly. He couldn’t even feign given her ammunition for she didn’t need it.

hyper-sexual and abounding that is teenage concupiscence anyone, yet Jonny kept it wellof scholastic focus. Tina “You beat off a lot, doncha?” embarrassment. It would’ve the taunting though he knew


He loved jerking off to porn wherein the stars were Latinas who couldn’t speak English and who were illegal and being punished for such. He knew it was fucked up in his mind, but the idea engorged so his cock with blood, lust and cum that guilt could easily be deferred until after the release. His favorite video was the one with the supposedly 18-yearold girl who had just been caught trying to sneak across the border by a big black border cop. It wasn’t even that he imagined himself in the cop’s situation; more, it was the tingly sensation he was gifted with when watching the guy’s huge cock split her pussy lips like distrust between two people who once loved one another after mutual infidelities; how they hugged the shaft of his cock as it


entered and exited her; how she moaned with each push and pull, screaming the clichéd ¡AY cock in her juices.


as her pussy lathered his


Shawn nodded to THE DRIVER once

they were finished and he paid for her coffee and they left. She was supposed to meet them near the Good-Latimer tunnel within the hour, which gave her about 20 minutes to walk. She checked her teeth in the minuscule reflection offered by the display screen of her flip-phone. Sucking at her gums with smacking sounds, she thought on how she’d always been insecure about her smile. She thought it was her worst feature; gummy and spaced like the memories of her ex-lovers, melted by the heat of their encounters and spaced by the distance of their lives’ desires. But the bright side was that she loved her tits and knew that the Stranger she was set to fuck would too. Jonny/ He told Tina excitedly that his older brother was going to surprise him for his 18th birthday. Never minding the fact that if it were truly a surprise, he wouldn’t even be expecting it, the first and only thing that Tina said was “prostitute,” with a small degree of excitement that almost bordered on boredom. “Strippers more like it, I think. I don’t believe he loves me enough to actually buy me a woman.” “Hey hey,” Tina responded hastily, “those alley creeping whores will do shit for a hit of crack, so he’s got no excuse to make money an object.” “Gross.” “Hey, don’t be judgmental. It’s unbecoming of you.” He didn’t what was becoming of him, though. He found that shit sickening.




em Português.
Jonny stepped into the van and was introduced to THE DRIVER. So what’s the surprise, he asked without preamble. His older brother pulled out a camera and, without answering, launched into the spiel that was routine for the gig. This is Shawn the Bomb and I’m live from a van on the sunny streets of nowhere and we’re here with my little brother Jonny, say hi Jonny. Uh. Hi.


Yes, a man of few words, but he is guaranteed to be speechless after today for on this day 18 years ago he sprung from our mother’s vag and here he is: virginal, acne-ridden and of course horny. Do you know what you’ll be doing today, Jonny? No. His older brother and THE DRIVER laughed. Gonna get that dick wet, white boy! Shawn laughed more, almost adoringly, because he was so very amused by THE DRIVER’S token stereotypical behavior. However, the color had drained from Jonny’s face giving it the appearance of a freshly drained gallon of milk. Gisele
She leaned against a tree, rubbing a popsicle on her tongue and lips, intermittently sucking so erotically in the hopes (?) that the whole city would stop and stare. Mmming and ahhhing and smacking and slurping with every in and out motion, the drool


collecting on her chin, she was a welcome sight for the urban voyeur and she loved the attention because it varied so nicely: men and women, white and black, Hispanic and Asian, fat and skinny, poor and rich, &c..

The van slowed down at the intersection of Elm and Good-Latimer so that he might get a good look at the available women (all of whom except one obviously not available to him). The first girl he saw that he liked was a tattoo drenched black girl with a low cut top that revealed the stretch-marks on her tits. Shawn told him he could do better and THE DRIVER said if he likes the dark meat, let him try it, shit, some of those hoes love that nerdy white boy shit.



, do you think she’s hawt hot? his older brother asked him as they drove past

He wasn’t sure. Not a fan of bleached blondes, he said. Well, you won’t be fucking her hair—unless that sort of thing turns you on, and if it does (you dirty little fetishist, you!), maybe you should see if the “curtain matches the drapes”—if there are any at all. Again his older brother and THE DRIVER laughed their ridiculous laughs and high-fived at this as they watched Gisele finish her popsicle. Jonny finally said yeah, she’s hot, and his older brother said that she could be a Mexican, too. THE DRIVER added that they all knew how he liked that chocha. Jonny shrugged and said let’s find out. So they stopped.

Shawn stepped out of the van and greeted Gisele as if he’d never met her. In turn, she feigned aloofness at first, answering his lame attempts at flirtation with one word answers. But this mechanism he knew he could deactivate with flattery (within the context of the ruse or without). He told her that she was very seductive and suggestive with that lollipop, but she didn’t take at first, only zeroing in on the presence of his camera. He figured she was just doing a great act, but he knew that with women, one could never tell. It’s an art project, he insisted rather forcefully as the overactor might do.

BEAUTY. My subjects are beauty.

“Ah,” she said. “And your subject?”

She admitted almost grudgingly that she was an example of the term. She didn’t smile.




Shawn was never very specific with his instructions as to where to go, so THE DRIVER played it by ear.

sat in silence, staring at the beautiful girl before him. His older brother introduced them. JONNY, this is

Jonny, Gisele. Tell us where you’re from, Gisele. I’m from Brazil. Nice. So, you guys speak—

she said before he could finish his query. Portuguese, not Spanish. It’s not the same. OKAY. SAY SOMETHING FOR US IN PORTUGUESE, GISELE. It was incredibly fucking annoying when people asked her to say things in a language they knew they couldn’t understand. She could be saying anything to them, and they wouldn’t know the difference between a triviality, a compliment, an insult or something of beautiful depth and grave importance. And that’s why she humored them; threw them a bone (and why not? She’d soon be getting one all her own) and said: “Eu simplesemente amo-lo quando os cuzões me perguntam dizer as coisas que eles não vão entender.”

No, it didn’t. She knew that? Why? Because that was never her intention. In fact, she was beginning to regret engaging these idiot men-children in their pursuit of pussy. But whatever. Maybe the kid is hung, she thought.


Of course, he wasn’t. But she didn’t realize that until her tan-lined tits had already been exposed and the boys had gotten a good gander at her flower, which wasn’t really a flower at all. Like many women, Gisele had body issues but hers only became manifest in the typical insecurities of anyone once her clothes came off. It wasn’t her body in-and-of-itself that gave her fits of anxiety, it was the private things that society deemed so sacred that they should be hidden. And now that she’d defied social stricture, to say the boys ogled her as if she were a piece of meat and they had been forced for months by their girlfriends to be vegetarian would be a cliché. But to say that they looked at her body with anything else in mind besides penetrating her would be an exercise in gullibility. Jonny seemed nervous. He was covered in perspiration and unfocused as he’d never seen a nude woman in the flesh; had never gotten close enough to smell the sweet tang of her sex. They were sitting in side-by-side in the back seat of the van and her legs were spread open to Shawn’s camera. He had only vantage of the tops of her legs and the inside of the thigh opposing. Fine blond hairs covered those visible terrains. It turned him on. His older brother commanded that he explore her. He looked into her eyes and she smiled her unimpressive smile. He began to rub her legs unsensually. She was not impressed with his clumsy touch and Shawn wouldn’t shut the fuck up. He kept giving his little brother instructions that were disobliging, and she was approaching not only boredom but frustration as well. Jonny had never—even in all the Asian porn he’d viewed obsessively— seen as compact a pussy as Gisele’s. The outer lips were thin, V-shaped, and covered with blond stubble. The inner lips were an aesthetically unpleasing gnarl of god knows what (hence Gisele’s insecurities that were really nothing to be insecure about!). All he knew was that he wasn’t putting his face near it. The only thing he liked was that, like her tits, her nether-region was lighter toned than the surrounding flesh.


Admittedly, she never enjoyed giving guys head

Jonny’s older brother asked him if he was ready to fuck some pussy and he said oh yeah. Gisele rolled the condom onto Jonny’s dick; it was almost too long for it or at least it seemed that way. He had to have been eight or nine inches in length, but his circumference was questionable; akin to clutching a hot dog without the bun.

but Jonny squirmed and
moaned unlike any other. The vulnerability and near-comedy of

it all turned her on, and as the
minutes ticked by, she got wetter and wetter and even

contemplated sucking so good so

Jonny watched Gisele guide his cock into the nubby, wrinkly flesh between her legs and lower herself onto his lap. He couldn’t really feel anything but tightness but the smell of her pussy lubricating his sheathed member got him going.

that he’d unload it all in her mouth. Not that it’d taste very

good because his pre-cum had a
stale urine scent and flavor to match. But this was about the

The van was moving. She was completely naked and writhing in Jonny’s lap. He had a shirt on. She found herself hoping he’d be ready to drop his load soon because the thrill had already dissipated. Sure, she was tight around his shaft, listing over him like a rubberducky in a child’s bubble bath, but that was what nature had given her. A tight slippery cunt.

show of it all (!), and sure, she might’ve found relief, even

enjoyment in coaxing him to early climax, but that would’ve only been blooper material. And she didn’t want to risk not getting paid, so she slurped away on his cock with measured jerks of hand and head.


It was as if he were going to pull out and say, “oh, you’re good on oil.”
She felt the shadow of the camera engulf her asshole. The van came to a stop. Jonny giggled some seeing her pussy slide up and down on his shaft. After about four minutes of that, he was ready to lay her down and do some pounding of his own; just like in the porn he’d seen all throughout his pubescent/post-pubescent years. He moaned and groaned and tried to lower her to the floor of the van, but he was feeling the head rush and the tingle in his feet that would signify the deterioration of the levees that would give way to the deluge. He dropped her, apologizing her entire way to the floor, ripped off the condom and jetted two strong ejaculations of baby batter onto her stomach; the rest dribbling out in pearls and puddles. Jonny was panting. Gisele, of course, would have to wait for her orgasm, which she expected would come only in the pocket scented form of green papers. THE DRIVER stopped the van in an alley whose dumpsters obstructed the view from the traffic, and before Gisele—whose real name was Amanda—could get herself cleansed of Jonny’s jizz, Shawn pushed open the door, and THE DRIVER came around and helped her out—I’M NAKED! I’M NAKED, she screamed, but they laughed, THE DRIVER held her down and Shawn slapped the cash onto the still liquid but no longer as gluey (now clear, glistening) semen on her belly, threw her her clothes, jumped back into the van with such expedience that her curses didn’t register before they sped away.


Ascending a Double-Decker Staircase United Kingdom 1988/2007

I wasn’t even five years old yet. I was with my father in downtown London or the City of London or the West End or wherever when I spotted a double-decker bus. It was the first time I’d seen one despite being born in Greenwich. I’d spent the previous years (now the last couple of years) in Houston and Dallas and had never seen anything like it. Though I wouldn’t say it was a source of everenduring fascination, I must say that the novelty of a bus with more than one level was sufficient to abscond with my attention in a manner that pissed off my father. Being young, in ’88, I couldn’t keep myself from inquiring about it—in ’07 speculating upon it—running my mouth like a soon-to-be-dead suspect fleeing the law because of the half baggie of “mota” on his person. And my father—in ’88 a near middle-aged man and in ’07 a young in spirit sexagenarian—who never really wanted children, got hip to the hint and got me on the bus (cursing me the whole way). The bus was choked with people, our voyage (as it were) a steel corpse parading itself through the streets of London like a recently assassinated despot, the passengers that killed it guiding the riotous procession. It was noisy. I didn’t complain as most children in that situation are wont to do, but I did prod my father to take us to the top level; the only reason I wanted to get on the bus in the first place. I mean, shit, I’d ridden single level buses before; that was all there was in Texas. My father, exasperated, balked. He was already pissed because I had turned down the lunch that he’d offered to prepare—I was putting him out, typical child that I was—and it would’ve been worse had I been clever enough at the time to say well shit, pop, the only difference I’m experiencing here is that the bus is red and not yellow or white (the colors of the buses in Dallas and Houston respectively). I pulled at his hand, causing him to list awkwardly and uncomfortably to my


level. Daddy, I wanna go up the stairs. He said okay, I’ll take ye up the bleedin’ stairs, which was the only demand I made that day to which he would cave. Later he told me that he wasn’t going to take me to the feckin’ McDonald’s because it was shite food and I wasn’t hungry when he tried to make me lunch earlier. So he grabbed me by the armpit and lifted me off my feet and up the narrow, briefly winding metallic staircase with diamond shaped juttings spangled on its surface. He found a seat, pushed me into it and sat next to me. My armpit was smarting, but I was enjoying my newly granted elevated window-seat view of the city. In retrospect, like many of the experiences I’d reverenced from my childhood, this one has a similar blah effect now that I’m in my 20’s. Everything is the same but everything is different, the years passed since my last visit offering little more than the canceling out of additions and subtractions. Like me. I look behind me at my friend Matt who is sleeping. Farther down the aisle, two pretty black girls in furs and chains sit huddled in a shared listening experience jamming to the music from an mp3 player faintly audible. I tried but couldn’t remember much else from that childhood experience on the doubledecker with my father. Just the steps and my father yanking me up them by the armpit. The night itself served as great cover for the surreptitiousness of my memory: I could make out nothing but the reflection of the lighting above and behind me that revealed to me my own pellucid visage. But there was grey. Armpit soreness, staircases and grey. I delivered a reveille by mouth to Matt; an indication that our stop was on the approach. As we debarked, I said to him that my armpit hurt like a motherfucker.


Mexico -2010It was NYE and Sam and I were seeking (though not very actively; desperation unflattering in beggars and lovers alike) our everimportant socialization tool: white girl. We would toot said Caucasian female together from time to time; more usually for special occasions. I never had to pay for it because for some reason (ungodly though it may have been) he enjoyed my company. Naturally, I enjoyed my company as well, but I also gained much amusement from his morethan-likely embellished tales of debauched delinquency. Odd that it was white girl that brought us together because we were both white guys who rarely dated white girls. So we were broke: no alcohol, no white girl, and only half a pack of squares between us. Sam remembered some Benzedrine his exgirlfriend left behind when she moved out weeks earlier. I was curious about her because she was half-Chinese and half-Japanese (I’d met her once, briefly), but once we dropped the Bennies, Sam proceeded to tell me about a girl he met while visiting his parents in Mexico at the other end of the closing year named Teresa—known in her locality variously as

La Madre, La Hija,


La Puta


a triumvirate of female stock characters—who was as

iniquitous as she was beautiful, as capricious as she was resourceful, etc.. Sam related that Teresa stole not only bodily fluids from the men who pursued her, but also their lonely, bedraggled hearts. He lit a cigarette and tossed the lighter onto the cover of a magazine on the coffee table. Thinking that this was going to be a tale of magical heartbreak, I settled into the chair; silent. Sam corrected me on this assumption when he revealed that the reason he sought her out was because she had established a rather colorful reputation in town. No


shit, I thought. Apparently, he recalled, she could shoot copious amounts of jizz from her cunt. It was probably mostly piss, because the dude who told me the story looked like a piss swilling prick, he finished. This, I believe was only of interest to Sam because the sight of that kind of shit for him had been relegated to porn (such as he unfolded that sordid bit of information to me). I then lit a cigarette myself and longed for the raving egotistical chatter brought on by key bumps of white girl. Fuck it. I was so subcutaneously uneasy that I was ready to hoover lines off the back of his toilet seat. Sam then started bragging about how he used to fuck girls all the time in this very same Mexican town; even when he was married. It was easy for him, he insisted. After all, he was a generously aesthetically endowed gabacho specimen with a fairly sharp grasp of the Spanish language, and he was never at a want for money because his dad was loaded. What his dad did, of course, was the secret of all secrets because, as Sam liked to say in his usual oh-so-eloquent way, we shall dispense with the shit that is unimportant, and anyway, what we are talking about here is pussy. So he met Teresa through a buddy of his who’d spoken of her often pornographically fetishized gift and they had coffee at an internet café. He described her as a wider hipped Salma Hayek, which caused me to lean forward in my seat. I was beginning to feel excited, but I wasn’t sure if it was an excitement elicited by the twitching of my cock in my pants or by the Benny in my system (at that point I’d done the latter only one time before). He continued on about Teresa, mentioning the stretch-marks on her breasts that were easily noted (as most well-endowed women have them) due to her low-cut blouse and her cellulite covered legs (she was wearing shorts) that were, for him, a gargantuan turn-on. In fact, I would say that he obsessed over those details like a small child obsesses over the never-before-seen outward qualities of people who are different and consequently have to be reprimanded for it to their embarrassment. Fidgeting, I got up from my chair and paced a little. I focused on fondling things around the room: objects on surfaces and books in his bookcase. Onward he spoke, not giving a shit about what I was doing. Her English was topnotch, he said, way better than my Spanish, so there was very little need to wade through the thorny conversational shrubbery. She was


aware of my curiosities and even said that she surmised that I wasn’t passing time with her to talk about art or literature or anything of any cultural value (ah, she was a cultural aesthete!). Absolutely not, I said. Shit, I went in with a determination to come out drenched head-to-toe in her womanly jizm, I wasn’t interested in her mind or her heart; a common error men make when it comes to women in general, but with Teresa, I’d heard this was a fairly common occurrence. I had always figured Mexican men to be romantic only in the intangibles like poetry or music; their machismo obscurant of everything else. I laughed at this and put my cigarette out in the sink. Sam told me that she took him to her apartment. It was dark and stuffy inside, and an older woman was rocking on a couch cradling a screaming baby, trying to watch a television that was blabbering away in Spanish. We passed that shit and went into the bedroom. It was a mess: books and clothes everywhere, the bed unmade. Sin palabras, as was the custom, she kissed me lustily, powerfully, he said. I couldn’t believe that I was getting what I’d come for so easily! Incredulity was all I had in listening to him. I didn’t believe him, but I didn’t make it vocal. I let him continue his story like I always did. She pushed me onto her bed, he said. I noticed in one of the corners of the room on the floor were packages of diapers and Maxi-pads. It was fucking animalistic, dude, the way she took me. Like she’d never had dick in her life! Pulled off my shirt, my pants; didn’t even bother with my shoes. Fuck. She grabbed my dick, which by then was hard as a rock (always a rock) and stroked it like she was whipping cake batter or some shit. I managed to get her tits out of the blouse she was wearing as a disguise for her true puta self or whatever and they were the softest I’d ever felt, man. Like freshly cleaned blankets. Like whipped cream in your mouth. Like clouds. I lit another cigarette; amused at Sam’s unpoetic descriptions (he might’ve used the word prosaic, for he was seemingly aware of the dynamics of the English language enough to know that he had options when it came to expressing his ignorance); interrupting him to add that I could tell that he didn’t give a shit about art or literature or culture or anything really that demanded nuance or compassion. But he paid no heed to my insolence, sallying ever forth with his recount: Yeah, so I manage to get her underneath me and wrestle her sweat-shorts off and then I had


to peel the fucking panties from her thighs, man. They were soaked to her! It was then that I briefly took stock of her physique. And I realized that, dude, if I weren’t something of a fat girl fetishist, I’d’ve ran! Why? Because once the clothes came off, she went from being a hyperfulsome-hipped Salma Hayek to just being another gorda with a pretty face. That’s Latinas for you, though. They can be fat and pretty. Saving fucking grace. Other kinds of girls: just fat and disgusting. I had nothing to say to that for my mind was too busy churning through its folds and ridges the phrase hyper-fulsome to wire a retort for the rest of that nonsense to my mouth. He said that he couldn’t figure out how dudes lost their shit over her because who cared about brains and connections when her hairy cunt was soaked and smelled unpleasant. He held his nose for dramatic effect. So you didn’t eat her out, I asked with subdued sarcasm. Hell no. Couldn’t even bring myself to dip my fingers into for the slightest of tastes. It was fucking gross. So I stuck my cock in and just fucking drilled away, dude. It was crazy. I had her squeeze together her tits and they would (haha) smack her in the face with each thrust I made. It was magical. Crazy, magical; I thought it sounded boring and not only that but wholly disrespectful. No matter, I allowed him to carry on with his tale: So I pounded away at her cunt for a good while. She was mostly silent surprisingly aside from the natural deep breathing and shit. Oh, never had I experienced such ennui! Ennui, I thought. Haha, perfectly descriptive, as I was certain that my feelings in that moment with Sam were tantamount to the feelings experienced by Teresa in her moment with him. He then mentioned that he pulled out his cock to facilitate the changing of sexual position. Man, he exclaimed, as I lifted her legs into the air in preparation to push them into her torso, I realized that the bed sheets were soaked with her jizm! My pubes were slicked to my pubic flesh by her juices, and the smell was so feral and awful that all I could do at that point was do what I’d intended to do: I started to jackhammer into her; her cunt was slippery and it felt like it was wide open. Still no gushing. Dude, a half hour had to have passed with me doing that. My whole fucking brain shut down. I needed a cigarette (me too!). I was ready to for the inevitable denouement (me too!) and to get the hell out of there. I was tired, so I bit the bullet (sex and cliché!) and began rubbing her clit with my thumb as I pumped away. Finally, oh man,


finally, she started to buck and scream

¡Ay Que Riiico!

and I felt a push against my pushing cock. I started going faster; pumping; rubbing; her clit was quivering beneath my thumb. I was beginning to wish I hadn’t taken the Benny. I wanted to sleep and I felt like I was only registering every other insignificant word he uttered in the whole plethora of insignificant words he spoke. He said that after several minutes doing that and getting her to scream louder (he couldn’t hear the blah blah blah of the television in the other room anymore), he started to really hit the spot. Should’ve seen it, man. I was glad I didn’t. I had her toes all the way behind and over her, touching the pillow her head was resting on and gripping the sheets, holding on probably to keep from falling off the bed as the thing was in the middle of the fucking room with no walls to buffer falls.

¡Ay, Ay Que Riiiico!
she screamed some more as I pile-drove into that pussy; the juices squishing between our joining and parting flesh. I felt the pressure against my cock again and she pushed me off, shuddering herky-jerkily and screaming. Dude, I watched that awful cunt of hers contract and dilate or whatever, rumbling between her legs—and then it happened! It was a stop-start gush at first and then it blew all over me! Swear to fucking god! Head-to-toe, I was soaked! I got up and stood over her in silence. She was still coming down. Then, I couldn’t help myself, I started to laugh. And I started to laugh half-heartedly myself, tired and ready to pack it in for the night when he asked me to guess what happened next. I wasn’t in the mood to make any guess, so I went to the default what. Well, I wasn’t done, he said, so I lay down next to her in her bed and let her jack me off to orgasm while she told me about the impact Frida Kahlo’s work had on her young and ongoing life or some shit. When I returned home from Sam’s tale, I spent the rest of the morning masturbating to videos of girls rutting themselves to alternatingly silent and squealing, wet orgasms on webcams.


Mudding U.S.A 1990
Priscilla agreed to be his wife and he agreed to be her husband. Whatever that meant. They were children, so they had no real conception of what that all entailed. They certainly were ignorant of where babies came from or the act that brought them to fruition: sex. For them, playing in the mud was a sexual act or something approximating it replete with all the fun and intimacy that sex might later offer (or not). It was all child’s play, and why shouldn’t it have been? Sure, they were aware of their differences re: gender; knowing that one of them had a penis and the other a vagina, but that was immaterial when it came to prancing about in the mud after a cleansing gully-washer. It was as fun and destructively liberating as they believed they could get, and they would always show up to his front door and his mother would open it and stare down at them in humorous disapproval as they held hands and Pricilla giggled and he felt fear. But his mother never punished him though she threatened to every time. Maybe she found it cute; their bodies shivering from the cold breeze, their faces and clothing matted with wet and mud, their hearts beating frenzied from the experience and by the repercussive unknown, Priscilla smiling; him enshrouded in something like shame. Perhaps if they were older, they’d have been getting married for real at her father’s behest. Why? Because she certainly would’ve been pregnant by that point in all their trysting, that’s fucking why. But they were children, and as such, relations between them were platonic, so they had no real conception of the dallying implications of their behavior when transposed (contextually and in reality) to post-pubescent inter-gender societal constructs. One day as they lay in the mud giggling, the rush that came from their fun not yet subsided; Priscilla gifted him with a peck on the cheek and told him that she loved him. It took him by surprise because the only woman who’d ever kissed his cheek or talked to him like that was his mother. And his mother was a woman; she hadn’t been in a girl in some time, and Priscilla wasn’t yet a woman, she was a girl (he’d long ago learned to discern the syntactical and physical difference); a very pretty little girl with tangly but ever-flowing black hair and black eyes to match (just as she had the year before). He looked at her and to himself vowed to never ever forget that day. He would always remember it and her and everything; that is what he promised. The rain began to fall again not long after it had abated, and she picked herself up and then helped him up, telling him to keep that kiss as if it were a secret, the words—well, aren’t you going to say it back? He thought about it for a moment. He wasn’t really sure because—like her utterance—the only girl he’d said I love you to was his mother (who, again, wasn’t a girl but a woman). Typically, he was frightened. Consequences scared him because they’d mostly been bad and actions that led to consequences that might be bad froze him in his tracks. What would be the consequence to returning her words and what did they mean, anyway? Would they be good or bad? His mother offered him intangibles that gave him a sense of security. Priscilla offered fun and curiosity (later to be deemed sexual tension or flirtation depending on his situation with a given girl), but he felt so exposed. Playing in the mud, to him, was much more worth the shedding of inhibition than a couple of words that might only embarrass him in front of his boy friends. In the end (of their conversation in that particular moment in time, at least), he was still too young and immature to consider the weight of what she said and the cause-and-effect that may come from it, and as a result: said it back. To him, she was so pretty and her fluttering eyes weakened him. She hugged him and kissed him on the cheek again; the mud

32 on their faces squishing as a result of the union of their flesh. So it was that Priscilla was not only his wife but his first love. He knew he’d be getting plenty of cootie shots when the news made its rounds on the playground. His mother made him get in the bath once he got home. He didn’t protest. Once in, and after all that in-situ deliberation before returning Priscilla’s affections, he exhibited no insecurity (as he would do in many of his future dealings with the opposite sex), giving no thought at all to the fact that prepubescent relationships rarely last, and that was probably because he was trying to bath quickly so that his mother might allow him to watch the TMNT movie before bed.


Why the 1974 Atlas Doesn’t Mean Shit.
United States of America Or Anywhere 2012

The 1974 Atlas as an object is a three-dimensional thing. As a representation, it is a one-dimensional approximation of the world as we knew it that year and ostensibly the years before. Being one-dimensional, it is not to any kind of scale and is a poor judge of a great many things that its reader might want to know about a specific region of the world. Nonetheless, it is fascinating and breeds creativity. The stories herein that correspond to it are much the same. They are all embellishments and amalgamations of my memories decontextualized and recontextualized &c.. If one were to take the pages of the 1974 Atlas—its various maps and topographies—and enlarge and stretch them out over our globe (not a globe, the globe), they would only serve the purpose of an X-ray showing the skeleton our planet, a representation of our discoveries, a glossary of the names we’ve given to the places we reside and the places we wish we resided or are glad we don’t. Herein again, the stories serve the same purpose. They don’t spin like a globe and where you stop is left to chance (fuck, the finger representative of you could end up drowning in an ocean or lake or fjord or whatever the fuck); no, they turn because they are on pages. You can go wherever you wish and let your mind do the spinning. Fuck globes. But why the 1974 Atlas? Why not the 1983 or 2009 versions? For me, it was just a matter of chance. The 1974 Atlas was the only Atlas in the apartment and my only connection to the world that did not involve school or my mother or my extended family. It was older than I was and it smelt stale yet sweet all at once. That scent drove me to telling a 2nd or 3rd grade teacher (I can’t remember which anymore) that I spoke Czechoslovakian because that was where my mother was from or some shit—never mind the fact that I didn’t know shit about Czechoslovakia because I’d never read anything about it other than what the Atlas told me, this evidenced by the fact that there was no such tongue as


Czechoslovakian; I simply liked the spellings of the provinces, cities, towns, villages &c. and how they might sound pronounced—and I even made up words. It was complete nonsense and she was none the wiser; I wasn’t even trying to be intentionally deceptive; I just wanted to be less boring. The teacher brought it up at a Parent-Teacher night and my mom got onto me for lying (couple that kind of behavior with sociopathy, and say hello to your con artist in the making!), but also was glad that I wasn’t hitting girls or killing small animals or whatever, so it balanced out. If I could flip through the damn thing now (sadly it was lost several moves ago), I’d probably find that I’d added a large island mass smack in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean called Ham because there were already countries named Hungary and Turkey (no matter that one was grossly misspelled)—why not Ham? Or that I’d unified Ireland, created a real Palestine, gave the Inuit half of Canada back, &c.. Nothing politically motivated there (at least then; now… maybe). Just the cartographic whimsy of a creative and bored 11 year old who tells teachers impractical lies. What kind of world would that be?


Over the course of writing this small small book, a great many listened to me rambled on about it and offered support and advice. Many also came to my mind while I penned the damn thing. The following is a list of people I am appreciative of and perhaps even, in my own sick little way, in love with. My mother, my baby’s mother Shelly, Matthew Royall, Raymond Butler, Raymond Pratt, Kira Springer, Brandie Moreno, Christopher Carcerano (be the motherfucking milk!), Adam Strange, Lee Phan, Ken Kornfeld, Randall Garrett (for allowing me to darken his gallery’s door with my presence), Daniel Samaniego, DeAnte’ Toombs, Lauren Waterman, Daniela Garcia, Maricsa Trejo, and many many more whose names escape me at the moment. The first drafts of all these stories were written between 6/12 and 8/12, and the final drafts were completed 12/12.

© 2012 Patrick Patterson-Carroll