~0930, Saturday, April 5, 2003
Royal St. James Hotel, New Orleans, Louisiana
I awoke in a cold sweat. It wouldn't have been a cold sweat save for the unreasonably chilly temperature set on the hotel thermostat. Under normal circumstances I would have been bathed in a warm lather of liquor infused wetness. But why did I awake? Was it the rhythmic, devastatingly loud snoring of Big Steve? Perhaps it was the bright neon of the Hustler Cabaret Gentleman's Club sign which skillfully angled its way through the crease in the curtains to rest on my eyes. Was it the pounding drum beat in my brain that hinted of massive dehydration? Or was it something more sinister? Something awful; something so terrible only my dead insides could pronounce?
I tried to remember what happened the night before. The more I thought about it, the more nebulous my memories became. I knew I had been following around a 60 year old oil rig worker for a time. “If you ever need a place to stay in New Orleans you got one”, he had told me. Then I had been with a group of Marquette students. Was there a fat girl involved? Had there been a proposition to eat ass? Hmmm. Then everything becomes a jumble. I don't know when I left the bar, I don't even know what bar I was at. I do know that I was utterly lost. I think I wandered about the streets of New Orleans for more than an hour. My elbows were raw; I must have fallen or stumbled into a building. I remember asking directions from a lot of people, scared people. Were they scared of me? Did the security guard I asked have a hand on his night stick? The directions they gave me were all the same: nonsense. Why didn't I have the good god-damn sense to know that the Royal St. Charles hotel was on the corner of Royal and St. Charles? I'll tell you why, liquor most foul.
None of the night’s twisted memories helped my situation. I turned away from blurred memories to scour my insides for the answers I sought. My insides were quick to respond. My stomach churned, my mouth began to water, and in no uncertain terms I knew what was coming. I must get to the lavatory! The sheets tightened around my legs as I tried to escape. Hurry! My legs came free. I stood slowly. How much time did I have? 5 seconds? 10 seconds? Could I get to the growler or did I need to find a trashcan? Big Steve woke up, "What are you doing boy?" "It's go time", I responded with a point towards the bathroom. I found my way into the bathroom, and flicked on the switch. Fuck me! The lights were tantamount to the sun resting on my naked cornea. Off with the lights. Damn my eyes. My knees thundered to the ground. I rested my face inches above the shitter. The timing was impeccable. I opened my word hole, my throat convulsed, my stomach screamed. My lips quivered, I thought, just like the rim of my bungus during a shit. Indeed, my face hole was taking a shit. Thick, lasagna like worms of puke jettisoned out of my face. My stomach wanted more than my mouth and he took it as my nose began to fill with terrible vomit. Like a dry African river bed just as the rainy season begins, my nose filled up and then spilled out vomit. I began to cry. There was honor in these tears though, these tears were a defensive response from my eyes to keep vomit from pouring out of them as well. As the seconds wore on I began to realize what my stomach intended. My body was the Iraq to my stomach's United States. The United States of vomit. In reverse, I was deep throating a vomit tube. Would the vomit tap me on the shoulder before climax? Probably not, this was more like a vomit-deep-throat-rape. Suddenly I heard a roar, a vacummous roar. God? Was it my time? I would have relished death at that moment. My insides were dead, why not my outsides? Sweet, cold death. Unfortunately, the Grim Reaper did not come for me, he merely laughed and laughed and laughed. The roar I heard was the toilet flushing itself. The vomit had filled the toilet to the flushing point and saved me the trouble. It was a good thing too, in the dark I wouldn't have been able to see how close the vomit was coming to overflow.
Apparently, the toilet flushing itself was a signal to my stomach to halt its onslaught; that or my stomach had emptied itself in a single devastating blow. The last of the vomit rolled off my tongue which hung out of my mouth. Like a man who has been underwater a few seconds too long I gasped desperately for breath. One of those deep, throaty gasps that sound so funny. I rested my sweating brow on the rim of the shitter, my forehead lay right where the cleft of my ass would normally sit. I closed my running eyes and listened to the vomit drip out of my nose. My throat burned fiercely as the effects of the stomach acid were first felt. Did I taste copper in my mouth? Jesus. Blood? I waited for the nausea to pass and the delicious yet brief euphoric feeling to wash over my brain. I was waiting in vain. I needed the euphoric respite, but my body had other things in store. I have two major holes on my body, and only one had spoken, the other hole had plans for me yet. I felt familiar stirrings in my bowels. At that moment, with my head resting on the rim of the toilet, I knew fear and the tears began to flow once again.
Could my vomit-racked body sustain a second beating, an anal beating?
...Stories for another time....
Royal St. James Hotel, New Orleans, Louisiana
I awoke in a cold sweat. It wouldn't have been a cold sweat save for the unreasonably chilly temperature set on the hotel thermostat. Under normal circumstances I would have been bathed in a warm lather of liquor infused wetness. But why did I awake? Was it the rhythmic, devastatingly loud snoring of Big Steve? Perhaps it was the bright neon of the Hustler Cabaret Gentleman's Club sign which skillfully angled its way through the crease in the curtains to rest on my eyes. Was it the pounding drum beat in my brain that hinted of massive dehydration? Or was it something more sinister? Something awful; something so terrible only my dead insides could pronounce?
I tried to remember what happened the night before. The more I thought about it, the more nebulous my memories became. I knew I had been following around a 60 year old oil rig worker for a time. “If you ever need a place to stay in New Orleans you got one”, he had told me. Then I had been with a group of Marquette students. Was there a fat girl involved? Had there been a proposition to eat ass? Hmmm. Then everything becomes a jumble. I don't know when I left the bar, I don't even know what bar I was at. I do know that I was utterly lost. I think I wandered about the streets of New Orleans for more than an hour. My elbows were raw; I must have fallen or stumbled into a building. I remember asking directions from a lot of people, scared people. Were they scared of me? Did the security guard I asked have a hand on his night stick? The directions they gave me were all the same: nonsense. Why didn't I have the good god-damn sense to know that the Royal St. Charles hotel was on the corner of Royal and St. Charles? I'll tell you why, liquor most foul.
None of the night’s twisted memories helped my situation. I turned away from blurred memories to scour my insides for the answers I sought. My insides were quick to respond. My stomach churned, my mouth began to water, and in no uncertain terms I knew what was coming. I must get to the lavatory! The sheets tightened around my legs as I tried to escape. Hurry! My legs came free. I stood slowly. How much time did I have? 5 seconds? 10 seconds? Could I get to the growler or did I need to find a trashcan? Big Steve woke up, "What are you doing boy?" "It's go time", I responded with a point towards the bathroom. I found my way into the bathroom, and flicked on the switch. Fuck me! The lights were tantamount to the sun resting on my naked cornea. Off with the lights. Damn my eyes. My knees thundered to the ground. I rested my face inches above the shitter. The timing was impeccable. I opened my word hole, my throat convulsed, my stomach screamed. My lips quivered, I thought, just like the rim of my bungus during a shit. Indeed, my face hole was taking a shit. Thick, lasagna like worms of puke jettisoned out of my face. My stomach wanted more than my mouth and he took it as my nose began to fill with terrible vomit. Like a dry African river bed just as the rainy season begins, my nose filled up and then spilled out vomit. I began to cry. There was honor in these tears though, these tears were a defensive response from my eyes to keep vomit from pouring out of them as well. As the seconds wore on I began to realize what my stomach intended. My body was the Iraq to my stomach's United States. The United States of vomit. In reverse, I was deep throating a vomit tube. Would the vomit tap me on the shoulder before climax? Probably not, this was more like a vomit-deep-throat-rape. Suddenly I heard a roar, a vacummous roar. God? Was it my time? I would have relished death at that moment. My insides were dead, why not my outsides? Sweet, cold death. Unfortunately, the Grim Reaper did not come for me, he merely laughed and laughed and laughed. The roar I heard was the toilet flushing itself. The vomit had filled the toilet to the flushing point and saved me the trouble. It was a good thing too, in the dark I wouldn't have been able to see how close the vomit was coming to overflow.
Apparently, the toilet flushing itself was a signal to my stomach to halt its onslaught; that or my stomach had emptied itself in a single devastating blow. The last of the vomit rolled off my tongue which hung out of my mouth. Like a man who has been underwater a few seconds too long I gasped desperately for breath. One of those deep, throaty gasps that sound so funny. I rested my sweating brow on the rim of the shitter, my forehead lay right where the cleft of my ass would normally sit. I closed my running eyes and listened to the vomit drip out of my nose. My throat burned fiercely as the effects of the stomach acid were first felt. Did I taste copper in my mouth? Jesus. Blood? I waited for the nausea to pass and the delicious yet brief euphoric feeling to wash over my brain. I was waiting in vain. I needed the euphoric respite, but my body had other things in store. I have two major holes on my body, and only one had spoken, the other hole had plans for me yet. I felt familiar stirrings in my bowels. At that moment, with my head resting on the rim of the toilet, I knew fear and the tears began to flow once again.
Could my vomit-racked body sustain a second beating, an anal beating?
...Stories for another time....
<< Home