an Octoberfest hors d’oeuvre
I AM FIFI
I AM FIFI
As I came out of the subway I popped the last couple of mood adjusters from the vial and put the empty container in my pocket. Then crossed the street, and let myself in through the bottom gate of the brownstone. I was late, of course. Harriet was already shrinking another patient’s ego into insignificance. I tried to remember what it was I was supposed to do when I got there, but was totally blank. So I lay down on the couch in the outer office while I was waiting for her, and the next thing I knew I was off in dreamland.
Not good dreams, of course. Not that I could remember them, of course. She woke me and started yelling at me to get out, of course. And of course I hardly knew what to say. Of course.
I hadn’t slept in days. Though that was no excuse. I admitted that was no excuse. I was looking for an excuse, any excuse I could find, but I didn’t have an excuse. “I fucked up.”
“That is not excuse!”
“Right. It’s not an excuse, it’s a fact. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Harriet was furious! Started screaming, “I give you opportunity to pay off what you owe me and continue in therapy, but you piss on opportunity!” I wanted to point out to her that screaming was not very professional, but somehow managed to keep my mouth shut. The last time I’d seen anyone get this pissed-off, it was my high school French teacher when she tried to drag me out of the lounge to go to class in the 7th inning of Doc Ellis’s perfect game, the game he supposedly pitched while tripping on LSD.
Harriet had one finger pointed at the door, another finger dialing the police to physically remove me from her office. On one hand it felt like a soap opera, on the other hand my Other, my doppelganger, saw it a lot clearer than I did. I was about to get the boot. Get kicked out of therapy. Get thrown out on the street.
Fear ran through the chickenshit’s astral body. He started screaming at me to get down on my knees and beg her not to throw me out. To swear I’d do anything she told me to do if only she wouldn’t throw me out. Then he started yelling at me to start crying, and before I could say I can’t cry, he kicked me in the shins.
I’ll tell you, I wasn’t doing my fabled Anthony Quinn in The Guns of Navarone imitation for Harriet as I groveled at her feet. “I’ll do anything,” I heard my wimpy other plead for me as I sucked for air. “Please don’t throw me in the briar patch…”
She grabbed me by the hair and yanked my head back. Then glared at me with such intensity I actually felt genuine fear for the first time in my whole dumb life. My French teacher wouldn’t let me back into class after I stayed glued in front of the tv, watching Doc trip his perfect game, and I had to spend an extra semester in summer school to make up her class. Harriet gave off the same kind of apeshit vibe. Though with a lot more edge to it than Frenchy. When I looked into her eyes I could see she was the Great Beast of The Yeast (infection). The Fire Breathing Big Mommy From Hell, and I had apparently been caught in the cookie jar again.
“You need discipline.”
I held up the empty vial of the meds she had prescribed on my last visit. “Right. I need discipline, I need focus, I need strategy, I need a plan. But I don’t think these help at all. I’m really spaced out, man.”
“You took whole thing!” Harriet screamed.
“Of course. That’s what you said to do, right?”
Harriet went berserk! She grabbed me by the ear and yanked me off the floor. “You need good spanking!” she hissed.
“No way!” I snapped back at her. But my dick was on her side. My dick was not only on her side, but doing dumb pet tricks in the palms of her hand. Not only my dick, but my nuts, knotted up into one huge ball in her rough peasant fist.
Before I knew what was going on she yanked my pants down around my ankles, pushed me backwards over her knee and started smacking my bare butt.
At first I didn’t feel it, didn’t feel anything. And started laughing at the absurdity. No pain from the outside was greater than my pain on the inside.
After about five minutes I started to feel a warm glow, but before I could luxuriate in it, she stopped and threw me off her lap. She was sweating like a pig — she even looked like Miss Piggy as she took off her blouse and stepped out of her skirt. Then stood above me in bra and slip, slapping the wide red leather belt from her skirt against her palm.
I guess I was supposed to feel fear. But at that moment I was so fascinated by the way she looked and acted that I wanted to photograph her. Hold on to the image of Mommy’s anger in my head forever. In fact, I was so turned on by the kaleidoscope of connections I wrapped my arms around her thighs and buried my face in her lap. Before I could get burrow in any further and get into a rhythm, before I could turn her on, she yanked me up and back across her lap. Her long, thick fingers dug into the back of the neck, as she locked her full thighs around my dick, and began wailing my butt with the belt.
I could feel that!
Could I ever!
“Say thank you, Doctor, I need this.”
“Ugh. . .”
Between each stroke, as I thanked her, her fingers played with the crack in my ass. At any moment I was sure she was going to plunge into me, but before that fantasy could manifest, she clamped her thighs so tightly around my dick I completely lost it and exploded all over her legs!
She threw me off her lap and started screaming at me. “Look what you did!”
It was not a pretty sight, my ooze, dripping down her thighs. Sort of like the slime of a five-minute-egg that only gets two minutes cooking time, slowly running from her ankles down to her toes.
“You will learn control!” she screamed. Then dragged me down the hall to the bathroom, yanking my weenie the whole way, like a piece of salt water taffy.
I’ve read lots of so-called dirty books in my time. From all that early man & his maid Victorian crap, to the more literary Olympia poontology of Miller, De Sade, Bataille, Trocchi and Réage, to the soft core best selling hack fiction of Harold Robbins, to the great bizarre whack-off illustrations of John Willie, Eneg and Eric Stanton. I actually spent a year of my life (in college) living in a motel behind a police station that in reality was a front for a whorehouse. Had a lot of sexual fantasies fulfilled, and a lot more that I’ve looped over & over in my mind, but that didn’t mean I wanted to live by the reruns the rest of my life. I had the same kind of obsession with food: Bar-b-que, spaghetti, calamari, enchiladas, certain flavors and sauces, until I couldn’t stand the taste or thought of them anymore and moved on to the next something else. And it wasn’t that I was a flit or a prude; mind you, I was as loyal and rock solid as the salt of the earth on one hand, and as kinky as the perv next door on the other. And though I may have seemed like I didn’t know what I was doing half the time, deep down, though I couldn’t have told you what it was I was doing, I always had a sense of purpose, a sense of direction I didn’t want to change to satisfy my proclivities of the moment. Did that make me sane? Or uptight? My dick definitely had it’s own mind. It’s own drive. It’s own sense of purpose. And there’s no doubt it operated at all times like it was the one in charge of the program. So, since it was the only thing that really ever cared, for the most part, it was in charge. In fact, there were only three things that ever worked for me to take the reins back from my fascist dick; getting stoned or sloshed out of the old gourd, chowing down on one of my favorite food fixes and either playing or watching high holy hoops. Nothing else worked. Good high, good eats and good game; nothing else could consistently divert the dick’s attention from the object of its slut desire. Because once it was turned on, I was working for the company store. Through the years I’d tried dozens of experiments; playing with myself while I was studying, reading, watching the NBA on the tube, talking to strangers on the phone, to see if I could do two things at once reasonably well without having to actually pay the piper for either one. Sometimes it was the only way to treat the dick. Wham, bam, thank you, scam. And on to something more important. Like a hamburger and examining the box scores in the sports page like they were the Dow Jones. Even before zen consciousness set in, the object was not to think. Thinking could be dangerous. Disrupt your whole day. Force you into making decisions. Into implementing a structure to carry out those decisions. And if you weren’t careful, even change your whole miserable life before you knew what hit you. Nine out of ten times an old demon is better than a new God, even if they’re both you.
And once the right (or even the wrong) woman showed up in your life, once the magic snapping pussy of yonder yore decided it wanted you for lunch, brunch and dinner, all that changed. Old demon and new God were both the same, and it wasn’t just you out there scratching your balls anymore.
Not that I had anything against change. As far as I can see, it’s the only constant in the Universe, though the more things change it seems like they hardly ever really change at all. My sexual fantasies were a good example. They were always looking for something new to happen, always looking to give up responsibility for what was going to happen, but always making sure the surprise I got was the same every time. The women I always gave up my so-called will to, however, were fantasies. They always had some face I passed in the street a couple of hours earlier, or some body I fixated on in a bar before I came home. They were not living, breathing, nagging wives, or a bossy shrink with a totally different value system, not women who claimed they knew everything that had always been wrong with me and pointed it out everytime they opened their big mouths. Though I can’t deny part of me (guess which part) was turned on, this was not my idea of a good time.
In short, I was a lousy sex slave. I was turned on by the fantasy, but in reality I just couldn’t hack taking orders without rebelling against whoever gave them to me. Right from the first time Harriet told me to shave off my beard I felt like Spartacus, and knew that one day I’d have to rise up and smite the tyrant.
In the meantime, my traitor dick was euphoric. Even after she plucked it bald like a chicken. Then made me shave it clean. Along with my armpits. And chest. And legs. Before sitting back down for some serious sociopsychosexualtheaputic counseling.
Not my kink normally to pass myself off as a French maid (especially with the lingering flashback of being thrown out of French class in high school over Doc Ellis’ perfect trip), but it would be a lie to say I wasn’t turned on by the skimpy outfit she had me taking French lessons in. Of course at that point changing a flat tire without a jack would’ve turned me on just as much. Over my lost weekend, it seems, I’d eaten two months’ supply of potency inducing hits of Yohimbine — I didn’t know that of course — didn’t realize that was what was doing it. Harriet was feeding it to me five times a day so I could focus. But all I could focus on was how much I was turned on. And though I actually didn’t like her very much, no doubt I was addicted to her. So much so that for all I knew I might never get off-hard again.
I thought Harriet was the source of my heat of course. Her big white melons. Her strong thick Slavic thighs. The thick kinky forest of Brillo guarding her cave. . . The smell of her, the taste of her, the sound of her, the sight of her made up a symphony that completely overwhelmed me, though before I started taking the shit she was feeding me I didn’t like the way she looked at all. But now I obediently carried her soiled panties around with me all day like a dog in heat, and stood outside her study inhaling her aroma as she treated her other patients.
For two weeks I did nothing but live, breathe, sleep, drink and eat out of Harriet’s big red box lunch five times a day until three things happened: First I overheard a conversation between her and a young Puerto Rican girl patient named Sasha. The moment I heard her voice I knew it was the same girl who called my house 50 times a day! Screaming into the receiver 50 times a day, “Suck my dick”, every time I answered the phone. Even though it was a blind prank, something went through me when I realized it was her. My knees became rubbery when I heard her through the door confessing to Harriet she had been making harassing phone calls to “some fag.”
I’d be lying if I said overhearing this conversation was sobering. In fact, it had exactly the opposite effect. Though I was totally terrified she’d find out the same guy she was calling 50 times a day was her shrink’s French maid, I couldn’t keep my hands off my dick while I was listening outside the door. Though she obviously had no idea who I was, the idea that I could be discovered heightened my sense of sexual vulnerability. And when I saw my tormentor come out of Harriet’s office, watched her knee socks climb up her sturdy thighs as she tromped past me back across the street to Our Lady Of The Lust like a Disney true life fantasmagora come to life as an R. Crumb sexual fantasy, I knew it was time to commit myself to a life of total denial. Maybe even give up the world I was living in, and become a nun.
I always knew one day I’d go over the edge and splatter instead of bouncing right back up again. But this time the bottom seemed so far down I couldn’t imagine there were any hops left in my program, especially after the second major event happened: Sam came home. Or should I say Samantha?
Dear Buster Vibrator:
A funny thing happened the other day in therapy that my therapist Harriet (not her real name) thought I would like to share with your readers. Ever since I was very young — actually even before I was very young — while I was still in the womb, in fact, I used to have wild sexual fantasies about women. To this day my mom claims when they pulled me out of her I was so busy whacking off I forgot to cry, even when the Doctor smacked my butt.
I can cry now though. All these years later, therapy has certainly helped me a lot on that score. I cry every session, every chance I get, in fact. It’s such a blessed release! Women cry so easily, they take it for granted. Before therapy put me in touch with my feminine side I could never cry, and used to think that crying to women was just like pissing was to men. All they had to do was just turn it on, get it out, and forget whatever it was that was the end of the world just a moment ago ever happened. A man, on the other hand, usually gets so emotionally upset by those tears, he remembers the inciting incident just about forever. But this letter is not about philosophical differences in crying (or even pissing) between men and women, for there is no philosophy in the world that can explain to me the joy of a good solid piece of the rock hard-on while the tears are streaming down my face.
Over two thousand years ago, during Rome’s domination of the world, it was the common practice of wealthy Roman women to have had lovely young slave girls, who they would personally chastise or have flogged for their own sexual gratification. History does not usually record that the relationships that evolved between slave-owner and slave had a Lesbian aftermath, but I can tell you from personal experience that in our times the corrective art of spanking has frequently been employed by dominant females over younger girls for the purpose of establishing what may be called a maid-slave union.
I am FiFi (not my real name), the French maid sex slave of two beautiful, brilliant, strong Amazon Lesbians. And though they tell me I am badly flunking the French part of my maid, I have been on-hard now for the last three-and-half-weeks, without a break. What, Dear Vibrator, is the correlation between pain and sexual excitement? Am I a sickness?
My Mistresses, they call me slut, and yes, FiFi (not my real name) happily answers to the name Slut. Slut, of course, is not exactly what I have in mind for my life before I am FiFi (not my real name), so I confess there is a part of me that is disturbed by who I have become, even when Sam (not her real name) greases up her 12 inch Won’t-you-come-home-Bill-Burroughs (not the dildo’s real name), and crams it up my puny slut ass until I exhale the Marseillaise, like Edith Piaf singing, Allons! enfants de la patrie / Le jour de florie est arrivee. . .
Considering how many brain cells have been lost in this country just since Seinfeld went into reruns, it would probably help your readers visualize our relationship if I described my Mistresses to you. Harriet (not her real name) thinks she looks like Bette Midler, but in fact, ordinary people in these letters (or the personal ads, for that matter) never look like the movie stars or celebrities they compare themselves to. Harriet (not her real name) looks more like Janet Reno or that lush Russian shotputter who defected ten years ago at the World Cup Games to the University of Texas and married some pole vaulter from Oregon State. Sam (not her real name) on the other hand, actually is one of those people she looks like. She played volleyball and basketball, and because she was tall and rail thin and had no boobies then, pumped iron in college up in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, and thinks she looks like herself, but Harriet (not her real name) insists she looks like Susan Anton, whoever that is. Whoever’s eye she’s through though, to FiFi (not my real name) Sam definitely has it in for this woman made maid.
Right now FiFi (not my real name) is swinging upside down by my ankles from a rope attached to a beam attached to the ceiling in the chapel perilous of my mistresses’ bedroom. I am watching Mistress Samantha’s long tan double jointed fingers toy with the bush red hairs of Mistress Harriet’s flaming pussy like she is playing Harpo’s Marx. Yesterday those same cruel fingers actually caught FiFi (not my real name) by the refrigerator and like radar, honed ejaculation bearing missiles up my panties. . . Mistress Harriet is screaming something about the fucking maid now, though no words come out of her fucking mouth. It is the agony and the fucking ecstasy all rolled into one bugger flipped out of the frame of time. On the screen in my head, Mistress Harriet floats like a life raft in a carpool of sweat across the sewer of The Great Salt Lake, while beads of hope glisten off every inch of Mistress Sam’s buff bod. They are probably the man and woman of the future. One hard, one soft. One butch, one femme. One top, one bottom. And totally interchangeable on a dime to boot. The perfect couple Fifi (not my real name) aspires to be part of if ever I should be allowed to finish my training and grow up to be a real woman.
No doubt, FiFi (not my real name) is too hot for the twat of Mistress Sam to have any sense left. When she looks up into my eyes I am the melted butter ready to be lowered head first into the golden curls of her pussy, tongue first, diving for the escargot. It is my job to lap my ladies, every inch between their toes, and while I work the territory, never forget to ask, Would Madames like fresh pepper?
Later, after FiFi (not my real name) is smothered between their flesh like young pigs in the blanket, they dress me all in pink pinafores and send me out in the world to deliver a package for them to the Catholic Girls School across the street. And it is here in the locker room of their gymnasium that FiFi (not my real name) is humiliated beyond all rhyme or reason. The big girls are dressing for the meet — and I, Fifi (not my real name) do not know what they meet — only that I, FiFi (not my real name) feel very small when they catch me looking at a pile of their dirty socks, and start teasing me: Would FiFi like to be our little sock girl? I, Fifi (not my real name), do not know what to say, when they stuff socks in my mouth, then pull them out and start stuffing them down the front of my smock, pulling my pig tails, squeezing my buns and pinching my little nipples, then teasing — how flat FiFi (not my real name) is! Before I know it they have me in a circle, spinning me around until before I know it I am down to my panties alone. Let us see your pussy, FiFi. Show us your pussy, FiFi. That’s all they care about is my pussy, FiFi, but FiFi (not my real name) does not want to show them my pussy. I, FiFi (not my real name) have my pride, you know, and try to run, but there is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, because standing in front of me is the one called Sasha. Before I know, for all to see, she yanks FiFi’s panties down to the knees, then points with scorn, and laughs, “Well suck my dick, she got no pussy! She got a weenie! A cute little weenie!” And then they are on FiFi (not my real name), like hyenas lunching on the poor wildebeest.
Ooooh. . .what happens next, only happens in storybooks, perhaps. FiFi (not my real name) is saved. Saved by one Sister Rose Marie O’Connell O’Connell. She lifts FiFi (not my real name) up, holds FiFi (not my real name) in her arms like a babe until FiFi (not my real name) stops crying, then helps FiFi (not my real name) back into her panties. Then takes my hand and leads me down the hall to her office to get a fresh uniform. As I, FiFi (not my real name) am dressing in front of her, she hands me my schoolgirl knee socks and asks me what my name is.
“FiFi,” I say, though it is not my real name.
Then she tells me what a little slut I am.
“I’m not trying to beeeeeee difficult,” I stutter.
“I know, dear. You’re what we call La Naturel.” Then she asks if I know what FiFi deserves.
“To repeat the 8th Grade?” I ask.
And before FiFi (not my real name) knows it, I am over one Sister Rose Marie O’Connell O’Connell’s lap taking my medicine like a good girl. Tears of joy, tears of twat, tears of repentance FiFi ain’t got. So one Sister Rose Marie O’Connell O’Connell is using the iron ruler to turn poor FiFi (not my real name) on again, and this, Dear Vibrator, is not even my fantasy, it is yours!
For 20 years I have been reading Catholic schoolgirl fantasies in your magazine, while I take a shit, and now I am in one. Or I am one? I have become the personal clit lick of one Sister Rose Marie O’Connell O’Connell. Everyday before I clean my Mistresses’ house I come across the street to the school and crawl under one Sister Rose Marie O’Connell O’Connell’s habit to count her farts — “One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi” — after she eats lunch. If I miss one Mississippi she pulls out her big 12-incher, throws me over knee and uses the ruler to give me the righteous medicine of the true non-believer.
What should I do? Should I stay with the Nun who will show me how to truly love Jesus? she says. Or go back across the street for therapeutic training with my two cruel Freudian Mistresses? How do I choose? How am I, FiFi (not my real name) to get out of this predicament with my reputation in tact?
No doubt, I was one sick fuck. Like any red blooded American boy who had had too much to drink and smoke for 20-odd years, my goal had always been to avoid growing up to be President of the United States, and become a dirty old man (like Bukowski) instead. This time, of course, I had gone too far — I’d not only cross(dress)ed over the line, I had erased the motherfucking line from surreality. For this act of urban shamanic stupidity I was rewarded by the gods; a nice fat check showed up in the mail from Buster, of all places, and I was saved from the junk yard dog just in the nick of time!
It seems that Buster loved, really loved my “I am FiFi. . . ” Loved it to the tune of offering me a regular monthly slot for FiFi’s confessions. They said they were so excited they were going to try to get the great Eric Stanton to illustrate the little French maid sex slave and her two beautiful amazon lesbians Mistresses. I thought, hey, why not? It was far-far-fucking-out as far as I was concerned, and seemed like the perfect transition back to the real world, as long as I didn’t have to use my real name on the column.
Originally published in Beet #11, Spring 1998 excerpted from the tres-tres fictional memoir Giving Up The Ghost
© 1994-2014 Mike Golden