God of the Game

By the time I joined the crowd, the boys of the ambulance were already gutted and grotesque. Throat to cock, everything out. Inverted. Back to front, inside out. Exposed. Lying supine, it appeared as though someone played a tactless prank placing disembowelled gonads, a skinned banana, pig entrails and viscera upon their bellied-up fronts.

The recess bell finally rang, and the cleaners came out to do their jobs.

What I take delight most in classroom is Ms. Anna Doreen. Most boys do. She’s the biology teacher and faculty head of the sci-fi fantasy club. And man, is she hot. Doesn’t matter how she’s dressed for the day, she’s just smokin!

Best part is the one-on-one private tutorials; we boys will have our ecstatic experiences to recount. Dilidos, for example, was teleported upon entering her office to Manslaughter Club. Greeted immediately by two urban trendy geishas in hot pants beneath front slitting kimonos, they escorted him to a private chamber where the teacher was waiting. The room, a cross between quirky Japanese decor and classical European, was littered with illuminating confetti and models pretending to be dead. Fake dark blood oozed out of the mouth of a girl lying on the dining table, sushi decorating her back. A slender male physique sat splayed on the floor with a chandelier as a head. Two PVC bikini-clad chicks, black and pink, with bulky cathode-ray-tube computer monitors for faces seemed in-voguely electrocuted, while a montage of motion pictures flashed on their screens.

Anna Doreen was in company of a man in black suit, white shirt and skinny tie. His square shoulders narrowed to pointy feet, as if he were on tiptoes, as if he were an apparition, a Manga artist’s comic interpretation. Without a neck, his face was the shape of an elongated owl. Dilidos mentioned his name was Black Owl, apt for his appearance, and he was the owner of the establishment.

The name Manslaughter Club, according to Black Owl, started as a joke when it was but a nomadic revelry. People would ‘accidentally’ die during those parties - `cos it was that wild - and no one would claim responsibility. Police investigations led nowhere, and if there were any court hearings, no one was ever found guilty. So much so, this became a mockery of the judicial system, that even now, the club scenario always ends with a faux high-court in session with pseudo lawyers and judges and registrars and the accused, all in ultra-fashionable cuts of wigs and robes - un-sombrely, un-soberly and un-solemnly defiant of legal black - bobbing heads and thumping fists in air to a punk climax, trampling anything that has a simile of justice.

The perfect location for an uncouth character like Dilidos. He was barking mad, his usual behaviour, raising voice incoherently to the displeasure of Anna and Black deep in negotiation over cups of ocha, that Ms. Doreen finally tolerated no more and commanded the irritating boy to play dead.

That’s her power. She tells you to do it, and you do it. You obey. Perhaps it’s her beauty, perhaps it’s her stare, or even the texture of her voice, or aura and presence; the reports often differ, but regardless, we all abide to the song of this Siren.

Speaking of Sirens, Anna Doreen promises Dilidos, and even Mr. Owl, if they are good, to take them out for a concert by her band, the Sirens. She guarantees a good time with a flirtatious laugh, and ensures there will be mayhem for the night.

But as of this exact moment, we are introduced to the business acumen of this woman. The name Anna Doreen is precious and precocious for high fashion. It is synonymous with style and elegance. It conveys sophistication, but is yet mod; classic and hip simultaneously. It’s a label supermodels will deck on, dab on, be seen in, carry over elbows, hang on ears; so Anna is planning a launch party for her latest scent and line of accessories. It’s gonna be two weeks from now, and the theme is classy slut. The ballroom permeated with pheromones, her perfume, wrung and extracted off her own pores during life-threatening, painful sexual encounters of pleasure. She is of the opinion that glands secrete sweeter hormones in the presence of torture when blood is pumped hard by the heart trying to keep the body alive.

Anna Doreen plays the submissive. And that is what Dilidos likes. She allows men to experiment on her - a gang-bang with sharp objects and tight knots. Playful cuts and chokes, innocent cuffs, hot wax hurting her; the grinding of teeth, squinting eyes, engorged blood vessels and tensing muscles; tubes collect sweat all the while, and conglomerated, with bizarre and exotic spices, into a sexy smell.

A success. The crowd laps the Banquet by Anna Doreen, which, by the way, is the brand name of the odour. A-list clientele going crazy for the fragrance, ripping feline inspired Anna Doreen jewellery off, Anna Doreen haute couture; “It’s okay,” she says, when an apprentice designer scowls, “we’ll rehash the torn pieces to something else; something glam punk with a dash of Goth and 80’s Rock.”

Orgy is ensuing. Dilidos strips off and swan-dives into a sea of skin. Black Owl is more composed. He merely smiles behind an oxygen mask. Anna is a bit insulted. The Sirens start to play. The band members have beehive hairdo, gold gowns and diamond tiaras, and are almost shoeless, barely barefooted. Just a three-piece all-girl ensemble. Drummer, cum backup vocalist, is christened Sasha Sashimi; lead and rhythm guitarist only goes by the moniker Dallas; and Anna Doreen plays double bass and sings on stilettos.

Their repertoire is original Chinese retro with shredding guitar over a twist and a-go-go beat, and on some tunes, guest percussionist Jane Flamingo and the horn quartet, the Horny Siztaz, syncopates rhythm for additional jazz.

After encore, Dilidos is murdered on the dance floor.

Anna Doreen repositions his body to a comfortable foetal sedation and marks him by stepping on the ribs, piercing in with her four-inched spikes. Dilidos loves going into pussy, and he’d had a fair share tonight. And as always, after satisfying them dames in a sex jam, passed on from one hole after another, he is discarded. But Anna Doreen will take him home, wash him, and use him on herself. She is his biology teacher, after all.

The following scene takes place in Doreen’s abode. The camera is angled at her spread-out cunt, and she is shoving Dilidos in. Slowly, you can see her student disappear...then reappear. Wet and lubricated with digestive fluids, like a snake swallowing prey, Dilidos’ shoulders are sucked in; the pussy readjusts, lurching forward, and his buttocks protrude violently out of the fanny. Finally, Anna moans. She moans continually, and is holding Dilidos by the heels, stabbing herself as if with two spears. The movements become frantic; the woman goes loud, blaring like a hi-fi on full volume playing a soprano prima donna. As she hits those high notes, her bosom trembles, and at the end of the song, perspiration is funnelled to her cleavage. She swabs with a sponge, and carefully squeezes the substance into a bottle. Then she stoppers the mouth. Blueprint for the next mega-scent: the aroma of a woman masturbating.

As epilogue, she pulls Dilidos out. He has resurrected, and a blissful grin brighter than the sun adorns his fucked-out phizog. Sweating like a pig and drenched in Skene’s juice, he is satisfied with his smooth and polished mannequin pubes. But he is much happier with his huge Darth Vader helmet of a head. Dilidos also takes pride of each extremity, hands and feet, which presses the right buttons inside Anna Doreen. Never failing to locate, and then aggravate, that elusive G-spot, Dilidos is honoured to bear the mark of teacher’s pet upon his ribcage.

He speaks of alien worlds within her. This Charles Schmuck concurs. The unifying factor for all favoured boys is Anna Doreen’s seal on the left side: the initials AD in a barbwire, florid circlet. Her logo at the tip of the stiletto, imprinted on flesh, is clear when we lift our shirts to compare. Apparently, it punctures the skin and implants a microchip. This way, she, and Principal JC, at all times, can track our whereabouts. With the chip, she can also place us where she pleases. It’s a teleportation device. Now yer here, and then suddenly yer swept up by the wind and, yer elsewhere.

This occurred in class to Charles. He sits in front of me. I blink, and he was no more. Later, that night in his room, he recounted his story.

Charles is holding a chalice of fine wine in his right hand. Romanée-Conti 1945. He is in a penthouse balcony at the apex of a high tower. The view is a magnificent sun inflicting the entire panorama. It could be the end of the world, the explosion of a star, or its beginning. From inside the room tinkles the voice of Anna Doreen. “O’ darling, come here.”

Charles obeys.

But he soon discovers his indisposition, for Charles Schmuck is merely the butler. Anna is speaking to another man. It’s a long hall, a majestic temple of carved pillars and a domed ceiling. Paintings adorn the pinnacle, but the images are flash forwarding, as if the future is happening above a layer of fog, and those below catches only a glimpse, a blur.

Gold plates the walls.

She is at the far end from where he stands, enthroned on a marble dais. A naked thigh hooks the armrest, her royal heels dangle from toes painted dark metallic green. The curvy upper leg sizzles Schmuck.

That man has got no respect for the monarch. He passionately presses the queen; and she is responding. Charles wishes he had the chance. Instead, he is only consigned and condemned to walk towards the libertine couple in an erected stance, enviously ignoring their amorous foreplay. This is his first appearance in this arena, but somehow, he is familiar with his role. Anna Doreen’s right hand is passionately outstretched, and he places that globular rim on her palm. Then he proceeds to a corner, silently awaiting the mistress’ call.

Anna and her man share the delights of fermented grapes, of blooded vine. Soon, she is leading him to her sanctum of a private garden, which extends from the rear of her venerable seat, her august throne, to a cool patio where a hidden forest rushes out, as if a crouching predator unexpectedly pouncing with a wealth of twines and sumptuous bouquets of a bountiful botany. She is already dressed in lingerie. She is an otherworldly Luis Royo fantasy. That’s the show currently playing in Charles Schmuck’s mind.

He is pissed with her for bringing him here without allowing him to partake of the action. For Charles is all alone. And he does dumb things when he is solitary. His brain goes haywire, and he thinks up nasty thoughts. Thoughts that can really hurt.

Charles is imagining setting the lovers alight, burning the bed blood bright. He’s an arson specialist, a pyrophiliac. He is about to descend into wanton reveries when a guardian angel touches his heart, leads him to the inner courtyard. In there, amidst the trees and plants, he is a voyeuristic participant. Anna says, “Shhh... Watch.” He does, but the movie frame is not right. It’s like watching all the porn ever filmed in one sitting, all at once. There are the tasteful, artistic intimacies, right down to filthy hardcore perversions and the offensive snuff; often, it’s beautiful and ugly, insulting and simultaneously sweet, heart-wrenching and sick.

Anna Doreen says, “You’ve got three minutes and thirty three seconds.” That’s the length of a pop song. That’s also the period it takes for a man to cum.

And Charles goes, “What? You want me to watch all this in two hundred and thirteen seconds?”

Anna shrugs, “It’s been done before.”

“Now stop complaining and just get it done. Obey,” she finishes, and has the final say.

So, Charles starts. Cramping all that smut in a ridiculous space of time, he discovers Anna to be in all of them.

Anna Doreen, porn queen. This industrious bitch holds many titles; but only because we want her to. She smiles at Charles. In that 3:33 video clip, Anna is an angel. She’s also a she-devil. In fact, she is an innumerable number of cherubs and demons. She’s a machine. There’s a halo and an aureate glow irradiating her. She is often in a flirtatious pose...just damn bloody sexy. Tattoos and heavy makeup sometimes elaborate her body. She is pale as a ghost. Hot blood lips. Anna Doreen is cradling babies. Anna Doreen is a saint. But she’s also a slutty nun in garter belts. She’s cradling machine guns. She is now the mother of god. He suckles her nipples. Anna rides on a Harley in a bikini, striding out of a yellow Lamborghini in a matching skanky micro-outfit, jumping off some spaceship in a reflective cat-suit. Anna Doreen is not real. She is a picture, a watercolour artwork, a pencil sketch, an airbrushed masterpiece. She’s a computer generated succubus, even a pixelated seductress. Now, Anna is just a schoolgirl, but the type boys fantasize, the type that taunts her male teachers. Then she’s fucking monsters, and robots are going into her. Worms gnaw out her orifices: biological worms, worms from hell, worms with a microchip. Insect larvae poop out, Anna explodes, she is torn in two amidst agonizing screams, and all of a sudden, Ms. Doreen has butterfly wings. Colourful ones. She is a fairy. She is a tiny pixie under a microscope, friends with fat minutiae vixens and minxes, and she too is a human-sized white witch in snow undergarments. The wings now have circuitry, the wings are now batwings. They swell from her spine. And Anna is an android. An interactive sex doll. Life-like. But smash her head and it’s a metal skull. The lady is queen of dragons. She’s a psychotic lover. She feeds her men to her pets. They come in all shapes and sizes. They are of a myriad of shades. They have horns, they breathe fire, they come from China, or some Northern zone. It’s a zoo, and she trains them like the way some people train prized racehorses, stallions. She shows them off like the way some show off luxury and sports automobiles. Anna Doreen is a lesbian. She is participating in group sex. Guys with unrealistic cocks are cumming on her, jizzing over she who is a debutante of the dazzling jazz age, creating a scene, squandering her with affection. This is boring. Cut to other channels. Anna Doreen is an anime warrior. She is a goddess. But she does not know this famous fact yet. She will soon discover her superpowers. She can walk through walls, read minds, control the elements. She is omnipotent; shoots lazer from her palms, a martial arts exponent femme fatale, Anna Doreen cannot die. Her wounds automatically heal; she is saviour of the world. She carries the burden of mankind. You can see the weary lines upon her pretty face. Anna Doreen is a victim. She is beautiful, but always sad, always melancholic. That’s the mood she emanates during photo-shoots. The setting is often sombre, dull hues and shadows make up the photograph. She too is a Playboy model. She’s got her own website dedicated to her ideal curves. All women want her body. All men too. All women want men to want them; if they are Anna Doreen, they can have any guy for fancy. The server crashes, the URL is getting multi-million hits per day. There is a need to upgrade, for men subscribe maniacally to her topless pics and vids. Naked too, of course, garnished with articles of clothing worn inappropriately as accessories. Ladies and homos too key in credit card details. Anna Doreen is filthy rich. She also makes her manager and agent a lot of money. This is crazy. She is the playmate of the decade, centrefold of the century, pet of perpetual millenniums. Guys, when she is dead and gone, still wank over her; hundreds of fucking years into the future. They clone her. Anna Doreen is back in the twenty-fifth century. Then civilization ends. Intelligent life blossoms again by the year ten-thousand and they discover this ancient goddess frozen in a deep ocean of the earth. She resurrects from the cold watery abode, a terrible beauty. But then piranhas eat her. They remake her. She’s got adamantium sticking out, especially from her head, like chopsticks holding thick Oriental hair in a bun. Like the decomposed, oxidized skeletons of ships undersea, like a gorgeous corpse killed in battle by an axe to the forehead. A synthetic bindi accompanies her stare. It is her third eye. Anna Doreen can see into the future. She is omniscient. She is merely a consciousness, she is god; she is the mind of all life, the cognition of existence. Anna Doreen is virtual reality; she is almost real, and in certain ways, even better than the real thing, more human than human (from the U2 and White Zombie songs). She is what Charles wants her to be. Which is this: he manages to ogle this paragraph in three minutes and thirty three seconds, just as the song is sung. Create and complete her within those specific numbers, the birth and death of a universe. Anna Doreen, she is the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end.

The man she had sex with is wiping off by now, going for a swim in an open-air shower. Outside, on the balcony where Charles’ odyssey first started, the scenery is changed, the world is different. Charles Schmuck is leaning on the balustrade. Anna Doreen comes over, one of her incarnations, that is; she’s topped with a pink, fibrous China doll wig, and she starts to explain.

“Every three minutes and thirty three seconds a new dimension supersedes the current one. Mind you, we’re in the same spacetime, only quantum particles switch, but that is enough to bring about drastic alterations.

“What you call ghosts, you can’t see them, and they can’t see you, but you both share the same space. We’re talking in between molecules. And there are a lot of spaces between. Now is this location (she swaggers a GPS unit on her palm demonstratively) - longitude: 101.59361°E, latitude: 3.06444°N - on Earth as you know it; after the next hit song, it could be this exact location as the spirits know it. As the music continues to play, it could be here but in the future, or the past, or before the world was even made; just molten lava.”

Anna and Charles stood there, at the upper tier, absorbing the view for a good ten minutes or more. Two cycles had passed by, and now they are at the tail end of the third.

In the first, life was a pristine rainforest seen from the zenith of this massive rock. Mist floated on treetops, baptizing the leaves with morning dew. And soon the birds sang and the animals came out to play. All day, the harmonies of the jungle silenced Charles’ schizophrenic soul, mirth for a schmuck. He is sure the land beneath those spreading branches is hostile and violent, filled with death, and is unsuitable for children. But the animals get by. No remorse, no regrets; they live, they die, and they contribute to the environment for the next generation of evolution.

Mutants.

It is evening, and the sun sets. But it is getting brighter by the second. Soon a blinding light emancipates, and for a moment, it is surgery-room white, heaven bright. Anna explicates that it is merely the blank sound between track number two and three. The third song should start soon.

It does, and it’s loud.

Trees have been replaced by skyscrapers. No more is the tower they are in commanding vantage point; here, in the next reality, they are unfortunately dwarfed by black structures that eat the sky. Yes, for it actually does seem to Charles that the shadows cast by these imperious monoliths have the appearance of teeth chewing whatever remains of the day.

Thirty three seconds upon the first verse the catchy pop punk chorus kicks in, and night descends.

With the darkness befalls all manner of posthumous sapiens. Anna says it’s some kind of purgatory, but no one is suffering. No one is of flesh and blood; everybody instead is composed, carved out, of enormous precious stones. Jaspers and rubies and sapphires and emeralds, the beings shine with splendid extravagance. With bodies that cost a bomb, who needs clothes!? Indeed, these zero-genitalia seraphs radiate. Muscular bronze statues and iridescent Venuses, they illuminate this realm.

But not for long. Song four begins.

“The only factor which remains constant is this building you’re in,” states Anna Doreen nearing the end of the fourth piece, which stages a city orbiting in an asteroid belt, the Earth having broken into pieces like a porcelain vase. “And why that is is because I am sacrificing my own life in its place at the end of each triple-three cycle. Naturally, I choose a man on each occultation to contribute his seed for my rebirth. So Charles Schmuck, you have been a good and faithful servant, ever reliable even in the most arduous of tasks. Track number five is all yours; and track six will be your child. Make sure you ejaculate in me in three minutes and thirty three seconds...starting...now.”

But Charles shoots in 3:34. “Damnit! I told you 3:33. And of all things, you gotta choose this to screw up?!” A lot can happen in one second. The tower is turning inside out, imploding. Where it’s going, Charles has no idea. Anna Doreen is really, really fucked up. Fuming. Cursing unintelligibly, she’s fading away, and she’s taking his cock with her. Dickless Schmuck is back in his room, and we are all laughing at his expense to the sight of a forest canopy shading scrotums only. The California Redwood had been timbered.

We left before Charles Schmuck set fire to his bed in rage, pissed, and vowing to pay teacher Anna back for making him pee like a lady. Every time he goes to the loo, urine cascades off his testicles.

But this was only a nocturnal fantasy. He never truly got his revenge; not to satisfaction, at least.

However, Grinlock gestured in sign language that he lived all his dreams with Anna Doreen. Grinlock’s dreams are different. It is universally accepted that it is a male desire to make love concurrently to many versions of the same woman. But, it is rarely the case that the varieties are of the beastly and alien kind.

Grinlock’s a simple creature. He pleasures animals. The computer interpreting Grinlock’s fingers says he is at a full moon party, dancing with exotic Anna models. Anna models growing colourful parrot feathers below the nape, Anna models with leopard spots adorning the spine. Anna models in tiger skins, hybrid Annas of fishes, Anna living symbiotically in a shark. Anna Doreen with furry breasts, Centaur Annas, Minotaur Annas, Anna in Medusa’s wig. Anna appearing to wear a coat of lion’s mane, but it is in reality the queen of the jungle’s hair, her hair, Grinlock shaves off. She’s covered in wool. Underneath, she’s a wolf, a werewolf.

All these fantastic females flock round the guy with unmovable jaw. They are doing the jive bunny. On stage, Anna Doreens are dancing the original, raw and vulgar Moulin Rouge of the late nineteenth, early twentieth century; Anna Doreens that are blue and green and orange in colour, kitsch, kicking high those florescent legs under frilly petticoats. Anna Doreens with webbed limbs and pointy elf ears gyrate to the slow rock of a striptease.

Surreal world of the Grinlock, they are giving him a lap dance. The customer’s expression is unchanged. Flushed, but unchanged. They chug alcoholic beverages through the cracks of his teeth, and they also open beer bottles with it. Annas sitting on him, Grinlock is drenched in hard liquor, and pretty much drunk to an augmented state. One Anna suggests lighting a match. Another laughs. Then one, which is the daughter of Bambi and HR Giger’s Alien, screamed, “Do it! Do it.” A harem of Anna zebras whined in harmony, “But he’ll burn with all that intoxicating liquid poured over him...” Anna Doreen’s face under the hood of a Mustang vrooms, “It’s ok. Let him burn.”

So it was unanimously decided that they should torch Grinlock. But that drunken bastard’s not bothered. In perdition, Anna Doreens are singing from sepulchres, an operatic choir. She is inside rocks, and everywhere Grinlock steps, it is Anna’s painful face. He is surfing over a sea of delicate hands. Though each sassy, illustrated nail is unique and lustrous in enticing handjob desire - like crowded fingers rubbing in the ingredients of delicious apple crumble - he recognizes them by the ring Anna Doreen has on her middle finger, a jade eyeball chained with and coiled by gold dragons and serpents. Very ancient Chinese mixed with Mayan caricatures.

He is surfacing from undersea, limbs kicking and pulling him up. Grinlock is back at the full moon party. There are two moons in the sky. The larger seems extremely intimate, about to kiss the face of the earth. The farther is forlorn, jealous of the elder sister’s proximity to the planet. Legends tell that they are twins born Anna Doreen.

The sky is purple, and the sands of the beach are a colourful Rangoli rainbow, sand paintings welcoming the holy feet of deities. Perpetual Mandalas. Anna Doreens are standing on pivotal points of sacred geometries. She is composed of the elements, and whispering through the wind. All the audible words pass Grinlock by, except one. Silence.

Computer says Grinlock understands the innuendo. He is to take a mute vow. It is an anticlimax end.

“Fuck you!” Dilidos curses.

And just like that, Grinlock unplugs and foregoes communication altogether.

“What about you?” Dilidos turns to me, “What’s your story with Anna Doreen?”

Charles Schmuck comes back to join in; angst all ejaculated in towering infernos. Apparently he’d entered every 3:33 and fried them ablaze with his pyro-signature. How Teacher Anna is going to punish him, we’ll find out in class tomorrow. Hinted by ember dots of rash glowering on his skin, as if the incinerations had victimized the violator alas, it could be inferred from the ash coughing out of a schmuck mouth, that Charles may have contracted cinders of a mercurial fever from a mutant descendent of his and Anna’s in a 3:34 cosmology. But right now, as his chagrin cools, the symptoms roll back and he is once more his well mannered temperament.

Grinlock is sitting in a corner, pretending not to listen, cut off from civilization. But his ears are perked, giving him away. I’m the only one that notices, but I keep the comments to myself. Not in the mood to embarrass no one. Rather, I begin:

Anna Doreen is with me. We are walking down a serene street in the heart of a park. Trees from both sides lean over to kiss leaves, creating a romantic archway, a perfect tryst. Hand in arm, Anna says it’s like walking down the aisle; and I go, “What? And I am your father giving you away?” I teased. “No way! Yer mine. Given to me.”

She chuckled and slapped me on the shoulders playfully. It’s autumn, and Anna comments that the dead, yellow leaves falling remind her of confetti.

“You relate everything you see to a wedding today, don’t you?” I stated the obvious.

Anna Doreen merely pouts. Then she smiles; eyes gleaming through single eyelid slits.

Yah, I’d proposed just earlier to her incredible joy and affirmation. Got down on my knees at the base of a giant Sequoia and, pressed from my breast-pocket, as if alchemizing from the heart, unveiled a one-of-a-kind diamond ring custom made to her affection. Her fingers went to mouth, unblinking wide. Anna gurgled. She could not speak...and the suspense was killing me, putting my life on the line, akin, you could say, to standing in front of a firing squad.

Then the words broke from her cords. It sounded like...it sounded like a... It sounded like a y... Immediately I recognized the positive intonation. I sprung up, I hugged Anna Doreen; she jumped on me, crying, laughing, her voice crystal clear this time, “Yes, yes, of course it’s a yes. Of course! Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you. I’ll marry you!” Tears squinted, crow’s feet visible.

Anna Doreen. I’d met you after Gee Ni. But not in real life, only in this make-believe one. In Dreamstate, I guess it’s okay. Happiness is loads more than the sweet lines ornamenting a beautiful face. I’d always sought it in the gutters, or rather, from those wearing garters; in blue movies, yellow literature and red-light districts. But found none. She had to be hot, hit me an instant erection, immediately quicken my pulse. Misplaced directives, wrong values; no wonder I ended up with call-girls and prostitutes, and the milder masseuses. My short-sighted focus only viewed chicks on the exterior, caring not about their natures. I was tired; I didn’t want to get to know a girl. I just wanted her to make me cum.

Yes, I dreamed of fucking; they offered me pussy for more. But I always declined, stating a hand or foot job suffices. I won’t go into the psychology of it, and the hurts behind. I’d talked about them to you before. I don’t want to say anymore. Don’t want you to tag me a bore.

Instead, I want to talk about Anna Doreen. Describe her. She’s not beautiful; she’s not ugly. She is plain and attached to a heart of gold and a fist of steel. Anna works as a waitress in a coffee-bar where I regularly do my writing. I did not notice her, ever, until an incident which awoke my senses came with the crash and clatter of cups and saucers, accompanied by metallic clangs of stainless steel spoons hitting the tiled mosaic floor.

Everyone looked up; those conversing; those, like me, bowed and worshipping laptop screens, freed momentarily from this modern opiate of the masses, the machines we revolve our lives.

A troublesome customer disrupts the peace. The shop manager later mentioned that the hairy Mediterranean man had purposely pushed Anna, taking the abhorrent opportunity to squeeze a breast, and causing her to drop the tray. Why? Because that man’s an idiot, that’s why.

Anna stood her ground. He’d accused her of being sloppy, for spilling beverage on his floral-printed shirt. That could be a fact...but whatever...he overreacted; and because he thinks he’s some fat fucking tourist, he can like get away with anything.

No fat chance, man.

He's demanding a free meal for the muck up; he’s insisting on compensation for the cotton apparel which he forked out too much for, pushing the blame to Anna, accusing her of rudeness, though it’s blatantly clear who’s the one that’s vulgar and uncouth in language and deed. He said Anna insulted him, that she’s just feigning innocence. “Underneath that modest facade is a bitch!” he points the finger beneath a mist thick with South-European accent. She sullied him deliberately. She dropped the tray and framed him. Why? How the hell does he know?

“She’s plainly a muthafuckin psycho!”

Now he’s threatening to report this incident to the Consumer’s Association, the authorities will close this place up.

Anna says, “Go ahead.”

He’s going like, “Do you know who I am? Do you know who the fuck I am?”

“Yes,” Anna replies she’s aware, “A fuck. That’s who you are. You said it yourself.”

The manager steps in. On one hand, he’s gotta defend Anna Doreen. On the other, placate the tourist.

The local tart accompanying the Mediterranean asshole sits silent, embarrassed by the charade. It’s so conspicuous she is not his wife, just some ‘thing’ he’d obtained through his slim, cashless wallet. She got my attention earlier, no doubt, when she sashayed in on that pig’s arm; but now, only Anna is on my antenna.

Fatso’s thick arms are tensed, his pork knuckles about to punch. He is infuriated by what Anna just proclaimed. But contrary to his demeanour, she’s super cool and calm. Anna states “Go ahead; punch a girl. That will show how much of a man you are.”

He swings, Anna ducks, comes back up and returns with a straight right which connects directly to the nose.

Humpty Dumpty wobbles, hands cradling that crooked olfactory organ needing rhinoplasty. Blood roars out the nostrils, through the cracks of his fingers, down his hands, off his elbows and on to the coffee outlet’s retro floor design.

The man is gurgling. The man is whining. He is on the verge of evaporated macho tears; shredded by a gal. Totally humiliated. Anna lands the final blow, “Losing to a chick; now that surely shows what kind of a man you are. I bet your dick erected is only half the size of your twisted nose.” Anna mocks him with a lampooning look at his female companion who just sniggers uncontrollably, definite proof what Anna Doreen mentioned was lengthier than the whole ‘short’ truth.

Everyone rose to applaud. The pale, gutted, obese man soiling red his mouth, chin and florid shirt, like an undead eating its own flesh for lunch, stammers something which seems to be words between childish sobs. In the incoherent blabber some syllables were discernible, one whereof was, “sue.”

The manager, finally taking charge, intervenes. “Go ahead. It was self-defence. You attacked her. We have a dozen witnesses.”

He was never seen again.

Next day, I plucked up my courage to talk to Anna. Told her I was a writer, and showed her the comical strip I’d composed on yesterday’s drama. She laughed nonstop.

The sound of Anna’s mirth morphed to Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, and we are running out of a church, through an arc of blessings pronounced by family and friends, into a convertible and directly to our honeymoon toward a happily-ever-after.

Tears are filling my eyes to the discomfort of Dilidos and the chilliness of Charles Schmuck and the monotonous grin on Grinlock’s face. This sorrow outside of Anna Doreen’s fantasy is more than what my impoverished soul can sustain.