Free Razor Wire Pubic Hair by Iii Carlton Mellick Page A

photographs of men.  Naked men, strong and smiling, a whole crowd of them plastered in all directions of the room, all of them staring at me with their square heads. 
                In the center of the room there is a single object. 
                A penis.
                A penis as large as my arm, lying on the floor, dried and stuffed.
                The frozen images of masculinity just continue their stares/smiles, staring at my breasts or are they trying to glance secretly at the giant member at their feet?  Wishing somebody, some woman or vagina-like thing, will come along, pick it up, give it a good caress and worship it like a god.  Or maybe they want me to worship them as well as the penis, their chiseled bodies, factories for muscles.  Are you envious of my muscles?  You must bow down and worship these muscles.  I am everything you wish you could be.
     
     

CHAPTER TEN
     
     
                "This is all that’s left of them," says the Sister from behind, still metal-scaled and snake-like, an arm dangling out of her crotch. 
                She holds me by the hand and takes me away from them.  Leave them with their muscles that no one can see in the dark.  Out of the attic.
                "It is all that the men left behind before they went away.  Something for us to remember them by."
                "No," I tell her.  "They still continue through me.  I am like a man."
                "You have the parts of a man as well as a woman," says the Sister.  "But you are far from masculine."
               
               
     

CHAPTER ELEVEN
     
     
                "Now what do we do?" I ask the Sister, standing there in the blank spaces.
                The Sister, her blood cold under the skin look off-off into the empty black like it is something to look at, and she says, "You act as though there is something important we can do."
                "There has to be something . . ." I tell her.
                "There has never been anything important for us to do," she says to me.  "We were created to fuck."
                The Sister goes into the darkness to embrace the nothing that is there waiting for her, sitting down to bathe into it, to hug her knees inside of it.
                "Your limbs have not fallen from you," I question the Sister.  "Aren’t you poisoned like the others?"
                "Yes," she says.  "I was one of the first to fuck Celsia."
                "Then why are your arms still attached?"
                The Sister rests her head into her lap, curling eyelids down and up.
                "Things will be better once we die," I tell the Sister.  "Our souls will find peace, find something even better than even fucking."
                And the Sister bursts into laughter, tearing laughs, crying with centipede patterns. 
                "Fuck toys don’t have souls," she tells me, laughing and laughing, and crying.
     

CHAPTER TWELVE
               
     
                I return to the hallways alone, waiting for Celsia to put her parts back together, come back to life as a zombie so she can fuck me again, just once more before she goes rotten, before my own limbs fall from my body.  Or waiting for my head to fall from my neck.
                The dismembered bodies are littering the floor like dirty clothes, stepping over them and ignoring anything that smells.  The windows, I see, have disappeared entirely, eaten away from the walls, the spaces where they stood now occupied by a patch of meat, veiny skin stitched into the house.
                In search for comfort, I climb inside of the incubator in the kitchen, the hairy cunt machine that Celsia’s ugly flesh bag was born from, curl up into a ball and go to sleep, back to the womb now dead and