TEMPORARILY OUT OF STOCK“Jonathan Shaw’s passionate descriptions of the surreal, paranoid jungle he inhabits capture the haunting poetry of his soul…Scabvendor is an original and compelling work…” -Hubert Selby Jr. 2003, Author of Reqiuem For a Dream and Last Exit To Brooklyn
Holy fuck!
Sometimes I think she’s actually starting to like it as much as I do…
Shit.
A 2-hour long roman gladiator fuck-a-thon where she finally surrendered again and again to the inevitable ego death of multiple orgasms, before passing out and getting fucked in her sleep for another couple of hours…
I finally threw in the towel.
Just as I rolled sweating off her like a sated preditor, she woke up grinning like a lottery winner.
“You should be paying ME for this kind of fucking, baby,” I told her.
She just kept grinning shyly like a drooling idiot child.
“That’ll be the day, Cigano.”
But I knew from that shit-eating grin that I had her.
Narcisa was in love.
And not just with her own image in the mirror…
Shit.
A sexually-traumatized, man hating lesbian whore from the day I first met her.
Then a confirmed, card-carrying crack addict…
Now, maybe she was gonna be a dick addict.
And I was her connection.
Shit.
Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved. NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção – registrados na Biblioteca Nacional como ficção com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa viva ou morta se trata de pura coincidência. As vários fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.
Finally it’s 6 in the morning and the sun is coming up over the bay. As I ride her up the hill to cop, I can see the first pin point of a devil red sun peeking through the steamy tropical cloud cover out over the green hills across the bay.
And we’re riding along and she’s clinging to me on the back of the bike again in the fuzzy warm afterglow of the last hour’s super intense lovemaking… Yeh I will really call it that now.
Because somewhere in the course of our ongoing habitual crack stupor dementia sex party, we’ve somehow stumbled across some invisible line between fucking and lovemaking…
As she clung to me with that drowning rat desperation, I could actually feel that subtle shift again…
It’s as if she’s somehow being infused with the very will to live as I screw again and again her hard into the mattress, into the physical world, back into life itself, injecting her with lust and love and passion and some weird abstract will to just keep living for one more fucking day, filling her being with a variety of living, tactile sensations and earthly energy… And sensations….
Sensations.
It’s kinda funny, but since I’ve been back with her, after our four month seperation, lately now, whenever she gets hungry for snacks, for sustenance between bouts with the crack monster, whenever I ask what she wants to eat she invariably tells me “sensaçãoes”.
Sensations.
The first time she said it, I thought she was just waxing poetic, speaking metaphorically, talking in tounges again….
Whatever.
And maybe she was.
Unconsciously. Speaking in symbols, esoteric poetry rhymes, riddles, speaking the language of the subconscious, talking the tongue of angels… the way it always is with Narcisa.
“Sensaçãoes”
It turned out though to just be the name of some new potato chip brand she’d sudenly become all fanatical about since the old times.
It used to be “Baconzitos,” these fake-food bacon-flavored corn chips that, if you leave them out on a plate for five minutes, they go all soft and stale, and taste like little chunks of bacony cardboard.
But there’s always some strange subtext to these things with Narcisa…
The other day she decided to try something new.
She bought a pack of Cheese flavored Cheetos or whatever…
dog-shit cheetos, originally uploaded by Scab Vendor.
She didn’t really buy ‘em for the taste or even the sensation now anyway. Now she’s just become totally addicted to the little cards that come in the packages of chips. Some childish “Dungeons and Dragons” type game. She’s got the whole fucking collection going now, all these little cards with with silly little pictures of weird little creatures with exotic little names like “Pegasus” and “Scarlet Witch” and “Golden Angel” and “White Dragon”. She says she must have the elusive “Black Dragon” card now to complete her set, so we can play. Sweet child. Narcisa likes to play play play, God bless her. But now she desperately needs the “Black Dragon” card, and she keeps getting me to buy her endless bags of these fucking chips and opening em up and eating whatever’s inside… Whatever the fuck it tastes like. Whatever… We were at the beach the other day, sitting at my little office kiosk at the end of Copacabana, hanging out, watching the waves, both of us stinging with the endless boredom that seems to consume us both during any of her periods of self-enforced abstinence.
She’d just bought this new bag of cheese flavored chips from the kiosk boy.
She opened it up and started munching away.
She even offered me some, probably trying to munch her way faster to the precious card hidden at the bottom of the bag…
I wasn’t hungry though. Especially since having noticed a lingering smell of dog shit in the air.
Fucking people bringing their stupid mutts down to my beach to shit.
Fuck.
Soon enough, Narcisa was bored again, her habitual state whenever suffering from any significant period of prolonged abstinence from the crack.
“Let’s get the fuck out, Cigano. I wanna go. Go go go! Moooove!”
I got on the bike and she got on behind me. I could still smell it as we pulled away, the vague lingering odor of dog shit in my nostrils, so I didn’t mind getting out of there anyway.
We rode off down the beach, Narcisa muching away at her chips behind me, like a contented baby cow.
Half way home! as we pulled up to a stoplight, there it was again.
The irritating smell of dogshit.
I told her and she said I was just imagining it.
Whatever.
One of us had probably stepped in shit. She told me they say it’s good luck and I told her they probably just say that to feel less pissed off for having stepped in a pile of stinky old dog shit, that’s all.
The light turned green and we blasted off down the beach and the smell was gone.
When we pulled the bike up in front of my place a few minutes later, we got off.
And there it was again, that unmistakable dog shit smell.
I told her I could definately smell it, and now she said she smelled it too.
At my insistence, she checked the bottom of her shoes.
No dog shit.
I got off the bike and looked at the bottom of my own boots, first one, then the other.
Clean.
Nothing.
Weird.
We walked up into my building and got into the elevator as Narcisa munched and crunched away, finishing off the chips.
“Black Dragon!” She squealed, jumping up and down. “I got it, Cigano!”
I scrunched up my nose, smelling dog shit again.
What the fuck?
Our feet were clean. Maybe we’d sat in it or something. I turned Narcisa around, checking the seat of her pants.
Clean.
Then she handed me the empty Cheetos bag.
“Maybe you smell inside the bag, Cigano,” she smirked.
I don’t know what I was thinking she was thinking I was thinking.
I put my nose up to the bag and took a wiff.
Dog shit!
“THAT’S where it was coming from!” I howled. “Ya KNEW! You been fucking with me the whole time, ya little witch.”
“Is the new flavor, Cigano,” she cackled madly. “Swiss cheese!”
Swiss cheese.
Dog shit.
Shit.
Pure chemical shit.
But that’s Narcisa, weaned on the worst junk food and junk tv… mixed with advanced esoteric occultism, massive preteen LSD experimentation, Nietzsche and years of adolescent prostitution… just for shits and giggles.
Narcisa.
If I can just survive her long enough to keep fucking her and loving her back to earth and somehow breathe her alive for long enough, she might very well just continue to surprise us all.
The other day while she was flying high on day three of another crack mission, she picked up the new book by David Icke that I’d been reading. She turned to a page and copied a phrase sown on one of the stolen postcards she always carries around to bend and shape into all her weird geometric patterns.JS and David Icke
David Icke, originally uploaded by Scab Vendor.
“I don’ need to read any book Cigano.” She declared firmly.
I just looked at her, waiting for further explanation.
“Waste of the time for the Narcisa,” she continued.
I waited. She spoke.
“Only what I need do is open any book on any page an’ right there is the thing I need to see…”
Later on, after she’d flown off into the steamy night like a psychedelic vampire bat, I looked at the postcard lying on my table and saw what she’d scribbled there.
Another clue for me who finds himself compelled, for whatever reasons that even I cannot fully know, to try and decipher her mind and her life… like a underworld miner, digging up whatever hidden message is there for us all.
I looked at the postcard.
I read it again and again.
This is what it said, I swear to fucking god:“It is the same with so many children consuming chemical-infested food and drink who become subject to hyperactivity and other behavior modification.”That’s it.
Now, not to change the subject, but I really do believe that everybody alive should read up on David Icke’s research as quickly as possible. If they all did, I feel it would probably start the ball of truth rolling to heal the whole fucking planet…
Regardless, that one particular phrase, out of everything in the whole 400-plus page book, is exactly what Narcisa spit out of her crooked little paranormal snout, her psychic mental computer that day. Then she left it sitting there scribbled on a postcard on my table for me to contemplate her prophetic existense once again.
And once again, I am reminded not to take anything concerning Narcisa for granted at its face value.
Ever.
Junk food, behavior modification, hyperactivity.
Dog shit-flavored Cheetos.
Hmmmmm… David Icke
david icke, originally uploaded by Scab Vendor.
Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção – registrados na Biblioteca Nacional como ficção com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa viva ou morta se trata de pura coincidência. As vários fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.
A lot of the stuff I wrote in my soon-to-be-released book “Narcisa – Our Lady of Ashes” was certainly made up, changed, exagerated or extrapolated from actual real life people and events.
It would simply be impossible, however, to give any real life account of someone as surreal and shadowy and ephemeral as Narcisa.
Not to mention that she’s as secretive about her “real” life experience as any KGB spy or CIA operative. Unless, of course, she’s smoked just the right amount of crack, and the moon and all the stars are lined up just right with Alpha Centauri for her to start spitting out some psychedelic version of her personal information like some cosmic acid trip-dispensing slot machine… But even then, the voracity of her accounting of the “facts” is surreal, and questionable at best.
On those rare occasions, I’m just glad I have this little fucking blog, where I’m not constrained by literary considerations or poetic dramatic worries or any of that shit… Here, I can just keep digging into the seemingly bottomless archeological pit of her bizarre existence, not knowing or even caring if any of it’s true, or if she’s making it all up.
Whatever.
And so what if I’m filling in the blanks from my own twisted imagination?
Whatever.
At the end of the day, she and I are just these oddball funhouse mirrors into some deep mysteries of each others’ twisted, tangled, mangled souls….
Meanwhile life goes on as she just keeps giving me more and more to look at and wonder about… maybe it really WILL all end up as yet another fucking book after all…
I really don’t want to write another “Narcisa” book.
I don’t.
I think I really just want to get the fuck off this demonic merry-go-round somehow, once and for all, and I swear to Christ I just don’t know how… Just like her, I really DO want it all to stop.
But, like her, I don’t have the slightest power to make it all stop.
Shit.
An hour later, of course, as we get back on the motorcyc after yet another paranormal cataclysmic fuck, I don’t care anymore, I don’t care, don’t fucking care. This is love. And you take that shit wherever you can find it and don’t ask too many questions.
Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.
NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção – registrados na Biblioteca Nacional como ficção com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa viva ou morta se trata de pura coincidência. As vários fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.
Now she slithers in like an alien sex goddess, gliding across the room, and I follow in her shadowy wake like a cat’s tail, twitching in a flourescent alley, all alert, all attention, awareness… focus, sex starved again, dying again and again to feel her hard, wirey body grinding away, all portals to Heaven and Hell wide open as I put my dick deep inside and die again and again.There’s no more time for dialogue.Now its an emergency. Fuck fuck fuck!!!Now I can taste and smell and feel her crack tainted sweat lingering around me like a graveyard fog, swallowing up my hostage soul again.I wait for brief relief again as she dances, slinky and alive like a firey crazed lizard, tormenting every cell of me… Again.And now she’s got that good old manic style acid flashback psychedelic groove going again, dancing, balancing, juggling, shape-shifting like a wild formless energy channel, an otherworldy cosmic wormhole, a hypnotic occult source…And it’s amazing, splendid, terrifying to watch her moving like a thunder storm, earthquake, tsunami, a hurtling comet, an alien spacecraft coming down down down on my tranced out sleepy, sleep-deprived head again and again now…Yeh, baby!
There’s nothing more erotic and compelling I know of than watching Narcisa gyrating, grinding, shaking, morphing, seducing herself, turning herself on as she dances before the mirror. My dick’s so hard now it wants to fly off like a rocket into outer space with her again again again.This is what I fucking live for and die for today.Narcisa.Time goes by like an endless reel of surreal, paranormal, multi-dimensional bughouse imagery…She’s been up smoking the rock for two days again now and yeh, she’s finally hit it again, that paranormal free-fall time-warp looney tunes anything-goes zone that she lives and dies for too…And now she’s weaving those invisible patterns of sacred geometry again, conjuring up crop circles out of pure empty space again, carving those invisible inter-dimensional portals into our third eye vision again, her hard, boyish ass tattooing imprints of apocolypse poetry with an invisible tool of profane animal lust into the secret codes of my soul’s perpetually confounded hard drive memory…And I wait here like a lurking jungle predator for her to finally wind down off the chemical fueled suicide mission that keeps her traversing the sky forever… Waiting for her to take the inevitable kamakazi dive into my arms with the inevitable husky rasp language shreading my audio-perception as she breathes that crack demon wind into my hungry mouth. Again…”Fuck fuck fuck. Smoke smoke smoke…”Our own secret code for the endless moment we’ve been living for from the very start of this crazed, addictive death dance.And here it comes again… Sacred union. Dick and pussy molded together again into one holy rolling unstoppable infernal mechanism of infinate momentum, insatiable, tragic, perfect Want, lust, passion, sensory overload, trance trance trance magic…But I can’t get near her yet as she lusts after her own unattainable image in in the mirror I bought her today, after she broke the last one in some deadly tussle with God knows what the fuck she let in….And now she’s dancing in the mirror again, exciting her inscrutable primitive narcissist’s libido, gyrating wild and crucial and free…Narcisa.
She gets herself so excited by her own dancing image and I get so excited too, as always, drowning in a swirling sea of bottomless lust, watching her lusting after the impossibility of herself.Narcisa.And suddenly she is on fire again now, and my dick is stiff in my pants and it hurts hurts hurts, oh God, this is the ultimate definition of Want.I slide up behind her and grind it hard into that ever-compelling infinate space between her pounding winding grinding gyrating hard butt cheeks… and she plays with my lust. Just like some sleek, beautiful, deadly cat taunting a mouse, finally pushing off me again with her elbows, like a high diver taking a bold plunge off into outer space in the endless depths of her own acid eyes in the mirror of Narcisa Narcisa Narcisa forever now.E agora? What now?I’m held a willing hostage in this crazy shining holy force field of Narcisa, waiting for death or redemption, lost lost lost in the fathomless sea of hunger and lust and insatiable, endless Want…E agora?What now? Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção – registrados na Biblioteca Nacional como ficção com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa viva ou morta se trata de pura coincidência.
A few hours after her last big violent raging apocalyptic temper tantrum freakout, well along into her next crack mission now and cringing under the merciless lash of induced psychotic paranoia from the drug, now she was all contrite and repentant again, suddenly consumed with guilt, ashamed of her terrible violent behavior, swearing that she was really gonna ‘control’ herself from now on.Well well…I told her what I knew about the persistent old junkie myth of ’self control’.”I used to be just like you, Narcisa… pissed off all the time… and super violent, crazy uncontrollable mood swings unstable temperment, volitale as a walking time-bomb…. I had no idea there was anything wrong with me. I thought that’s just the way it goes, thought my problem was everybody else… I had to go to hell and survive it, then eat shit and die a thousand deaths to get clean and stay clean for awhile in order to finally fucking learn that it doesn’t do ya any good at all to just spend all yer time sitting on a big wound up spring trying to ‘control yerself’… What the fuck good is all that ‘control’ when you know, ya really fucking KNOW you’ll just freak out again one day and send it all to hell?”… ”What’s the use in kidding yourself, baby? When you’re fucking nuts the way we are, there IS no fucking ‘control’. If there was any ‘controlling’ this kind of insanity, I wouldn’t have wound up being a hopeless fucking drug addict in the first place. I woulda just ‘controlled’ that shit and I’d still be having my fun today. All I can tell ya is that if you ever wanna get better, You’re gonna really need to start to try and see what’s lurking down in yourself that makes you get so fucking violent and crazy in the first place… instead of wasting all that energy sitting on a fucking big old spring that’s just gonna pop loose again and fuck it all up, like it always has before…” Finally I stopped talking and just watched her silently, wondering if any of it was getting in..Silence..”Who invented the spring?” She says suddenly.I dunno.I just looked at her.”I did, Cigano. I did,” she mumbled incoherently.Whatever.Just another typical conversation with Narcisa.The end.
Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.
NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção – registrados na Biblioteca Nacional como ficção com todos os direitos autorais revertidos ao autor, Jonathan Shaw. Os personagens mencionados são interamente ficticios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa viva ou morta se trata de pura coincidência.
As vários fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.
