“That was the year I was most successful with lesbians. There are girls who never come until they're eighteen or twenty years old, but I had started early and with mama's idea to shave me I was considered a prodigy.
“Take a lesbian who's lying on a bed sixty-nining with a little shaven virgin licking her and getting as much come (and what come) as a wet-nurse can give milk… you think she gets excited? I said, 'And what come.' You know that there are two kinds of lesbians, those who lick their maids' asses because there is more taste there than in those of their friends, and those at the other extreme who are always seeking the most delicate of sensations. For these latter, a virgin cunt without hair that flows like a gypsy is something they can't keep their tongue out of.
“I had a lot of lesbians when I was thirteen and, would you believe it, I suffered almost as much as when I was being beaten. A tongue down there irritates me. It's ten times more than I need to come. You saw how I beat myself off a few minutes ago — hardly even touching it? I can even do it without touching it at all. Would you like me to do it for you?”
“How?”
“However you want. You can cornhole me without me beating myself off and you'll make me come with your prick as if you were really fucking me.”
“Then why do you finger yourself?”
“Oh, it's still better that way. I can come when I want to.”
“Charlotte,” I said. “You say the moat horrible things.”
“I'm not surprised. I'm so stupid!” she said hiding her head.
And when I took her affectionately into my arms and she felt secure, she said with a laugh that changed her whole manner, “If the 'Story of the Hairs in My Ass' is going to be a hundred volumes, how many would it take for the 'Story of my Stupidities'?”
“Why do you have this mania for self-injury?”
“Tell me what I said that was so awful.”
“You pretend that I don't know anything about your life as a whore? And I reply to you that you don't know anything about your life as a lover.”
The sentence was put so clearly that even Charlotte understood.
“A lover?” she said, throwing herself on me. “Haven't you been listening to what I just told you? Who am I supposed to be in love with? The pig who cornholed me three times a week and then made me swallow his come before my first communion? Or the cow who was fifty years old and a grandmother six times and who rubbed her ass across my face? Or the madman who shit on my body while my mother was sucking him? Or the maniac who forced me to watch him whip my mother's cunt, the cunt from which I was born, and who whipped it until it bled? I don't know what other way I can say it so that you'll finally understand. Whores, like virgins, have only one love that can really console them: their fingers.”
After a quick shudder, she got control of her-self again.
“You've made me say more than I've even thought. I don't have the right to treat those people like pigs, cows, and madmen. They never raped me… But what I'd like you to understand… is that the more whore you are the more virgin you are also.”
This time I took her face in my hands and with my eyes close to hers said, “That's the nicest thing you could say.”
Who would have thought it? And yet that sentence expressed Charlotte herself body and soul. She looked up at me out of her pretty eye without in the least penetrating into my though)!
“Why do you compliment everything about me? My hair, my eyes, my breasts, my pubic hair… None of it is worth a hundred sous, my sweet. Go to any whorehouse and you'll find better. As for my buttocks, you made my night when you told me that you thought they were beautiful; obviously, they're the best thing about me. But don't mock me by admiring the words I speak…”
“The words that you speak come from the sentiments that you feel.”
“That's another point. Whores speak with their hearts like other young women speak with their cunts.”
The sentence had been spoken without any effect intended, as if it were the most obvious verity in the world. But I did not reply. I felt humiliated. Charlotte thought herself to be without any thought, any spirit, and yet every one of her replies had been more interesting than any of mine. I found (as my reader undoubtedly finds) much more pleasure in listening than in interrupting, and I was awaiting the rest of her narration when she cried, stupified: “What? You getting a hard-on again?”
“It's your fault.”
“What have I done to cause that?”
“You've shown me your hair, your eyes, your breasts, which aren't worth a hundred sous, as you claim, and I should probably find much better in any whorehouse. Right?”
“Am I giving you this hard-on without even touching you?”
“I'm afraid so. I'm going to complain to your mother.”
“And what do you want us to…”
“I don't want anything.”
“You're joking now! But that makes me feel like doing something!”
“Be patient. Be like me. I'm in no hurry.”
“All right then, I'll do it myself. Let me alone.”
“No you don't, dearie. I forbid you to deliver yourself to the vices of onanism on my bed. Moralists and doctors are agreed that…”
“Shit on them. My cunt is getting wet and I feel like beating myself off, and when I…”
“And when you feel like beating yourself off you do it. I know it by heart. All right, but you're not going to beat yourself off until three in the morning.”
“With me next to a young man who has a hard-on between my legs that goes halfway up to my ass? You don't want that to excite me?”
“On the contrary, that's exactly what I want. It will liven up your story.”
“Don't defy me,” she said. “I'm always tired and lifeless because I play with myself as much as I want, whenever I want. You won't be able to recognize me if you make me wait. You'll have me spouting all kinds of idiotic filth that I'll regret. Are you vicious enough to do that to me?”
With one hand over her eyes and the other on my shoulder, she whispered and repeated:
“Oh, God yes! All kinds of filth! That's all I can say astride a prick like this with you holding me in your arms.
“And besides… Oh, fuck it! You know that I'm a whore, the lowest of the low, a whore that everyone can cornhole, that will suck anybody's prick and even the prick of a dog; it's the same price.”
“Charlotte!”
“I don't give a fuck! You know that I've done everything with men and women and boys, and little girls; I've drunk the come of donkeys and horses; I've done everything! I've eaten the turds that whores have shit! You know that I've lived my whole life in come and shit.”
“You're crazy!”
“In come and shit!” she cried. “Even with you. Your prick had just come out of my behind when I…”
“But you yourself…”
“And now I disgust you so that you get a hard-on against my ass and you still don't want me. Even when I'm getting myself wet from my cunt to my knees!”
“But…”
“Do I have to disgust you so that you won't even shit in my mouth when I tell you three times that… that…”
She burst out sobbing. In a case like this there is only one solution: namely, to fuck as soon as possible, or rather to cornhole, should the female prefer it that way. Making women come in order to shut them up is a principle known and used throughout antiquity.
Unfortunately, if desire had pushed her to spout so much filth, as she had warned me, this same filth had destroyed the desire which I had had. There are some things in love which are not reciprocal. Besides, Charlotte
