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Today she’s in manic mode. Dancing her crazy sensual extraterrestrialDakini dances, hyperactive, tweaked, spun, musica musica, go go go!I love it and I hate it, like everything else about Narcisa, whenshe’s in go go mode.But, like everything else about Narcisa, I can’t change it and I can’t escape.I am in love with Narcisa, the good, the bad and the ugly.Shit.I’m sitting out on the balcony here in the big empty house, lookingout over my city, Rio de Janeiro, sky, sun, city, sea.It’s a beautiful day and I can feel the cool ocean breeze blowing inoff the expansive blue of the bay, caressing my tired flesh… Tiredfrom fucking Narcisa long and hard into the misty dawn this morning. OUR NEW FRIEND HERE AT THE HOUSE…

 Pet Buzzard, originally uploaded by Scab Vendor.

Sex with Narcisa is like smoking crack for me. Powerful, compelling,impossibly ecstatic, debilitating and raw. Compulsive. Addictive.The more I get, the more I want.Want want want. Go go go, till way past dawn this morning, before Ifinally limped home to my tiny dark apartment and closed the coffinand slept for a few hours of deep, silent rest.Now I’m awake again, back up at the house on the hill with Narcisa.I am tired, exhausted still from last nights endless fuck-a-thon.Narcisa hasn’t slept, of course. And Narcisa isn’t tiredOf course….I’m sitting up on the balcony looking out over the bay. A parrotflies by squawking overhead. Distant dogs bark and the wind isblowing, rustling through the clattering fronds of the coconut palmtrees up here on the hill. A ship blows its deep, soulful farawayhorn, heading out to sea…I enjoy the sleepy sights and sounds of afternoon. I want to lay inthe thick blue raw cotton comfort of my hammock and go back to sleephere now.There is no hammock now. Narcisa took it down last week to use tocover the windows, to block out the sun, the sea, the beautiful view of Rio de Janeiro.Before she set it on fire.Ashes.Narcisa doesn’t care about the view.Narcisa likes to smoke crack in the dark.Ashes.Now the dark of night has turned to day. Another day she hasn’teaten or slept and its daytime and the nighttime phantoms have fadedaway for now, blended into the daytime air and Narcisa is in manicmode again, dancing wildly, her perfect taut wiry young body gyratinglike a deranged marionette in the pink polka dot bikini she hasn’ttaken off for three days now, except to get fucked.

Now she’s on fire, twisting and turning and writhing and shimmyingthrough time and space, dancing wild and insane to the earsplittingnoise and frantic distortion of mindless monkey music on the infernallittle boom box I gave her to listen to after she sold my stereo up inthe favela to buy crack to smoke in the dark.The noise from the boom box invades my ears, makes me want to kill.I wonder if she knows I want to kill her.It doesn’t matter. I will not kill her.Just for today she will live and I will live and this is our life today, frantic, disturbed, compulsive, deranged. Passionate. Real.Insane.Finally she turns the radio off again, and again there is silence.But it isn’t the peaceful silence of before.This new silence is haunted by the creepy crack monster and all itsfrantic, manic insane demands for attention, movement, hyperactivity,action… Confusion.I can hear the sounds of her crashing and banging around the bigempty house now, desperately dragging furniture across the floor,building barricades to hide from the phantoms… breaking things.Clumsy violent banging noises coming from a disturbed mind…punctuated by the sound of her little red plastic Cricket lighterflicking flicking. Then silence.”Cigano…”"What?”"Cigano…”"What?”Silence.”Cigano…”This time I don’t answer. She’s tweaking. Spun. Crazy.”CIGANO!!!”"WHAT?”"Where are you?”"I’m right here.”"Where?”"On the balcony, Narcisa. Where I’ve been the whole time.”Silence.Crash!She’s banging around in the dark. Breaking shit.Silence.Flick. Flick.Her plastic lighter. Smoking another hit of crack.Silence.”Cigano…”Silence”Cigano…”Silence”CIGANO!!!”"Shut the fuck up!!!”She appears in the doorway, tweaking, demented, spun, grey, frightened.She creeps like a crippled spider over to where I’m sitting andstarts to examine my tattoos, carefully, one by one. Checking to seeif I’m not a clone.I sigh and roll my eyes in disgust.She picks up on it and sits at my feet, lowering her head like asick parakeet.

“You’re sick of me now, Cigano… I know.”"What makes you say that, baby?” I say as I run my hand through herdirty brown hair.My dick is already getting hard again, like a big fleshy compasshand pointing me south, right down the road to Hell…And, just for today, I don’t mind being on my way. Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2008. All Rights Reserved.NOTIFIÇAO: Os eventos neste site são contos de ficção - registrados na Biblioteca Nacional 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 vivo 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.