I long for nothing more than to behold the stormy sea, less as a mighty spectacle than as a momentary revelation of the true nature of Superior White Man.
An Asian whore like me should be forced to push half-white babies out of my well fucked and abused cunt every nine months, he told me, as I listened to his words with a palpitating heart. The pronunciation of each syllable was sufficient to provoke in me a complete change in key of my sensibility, a modulation of my bodily clime without the external seasonal change. I felt cold at one instance, then hot at another, then warm, then tepid, then freezing, then scorched almost to the point of heat-exhaustion.
You should never be without a big round swollen belly, with big heavy tits filled with milk, big swollen nipples leaking milk onto the floor, he told me. The images associated with his words, cartoonish, Faulkner-like, appear with their associated syllables, lingered in my head,drawn-out, drooled and slurred, gradually merged with an inspired longing, a yen, a pine for fantasy.
Not only would I be bred, but I would be bred by at least six different white men simultaneously at a time, so that I would never be able to know who the father is, as befitting an Asian whore, according to him.
“You’ll probably be the kind of whore that will squirt and cum all over yourself in front of the doctors when giving child birth pushing our bastard out of your cunt. His head pushing against your cunt walls and clit, stretching your hole wider and wider will make you orgasm for sure. He’ll enter the world with your cum all over him. His mother is a breeding whore, and I hope he leaves your pussy all swollen and sore after he enters the world,” he continued.
Those words present to me a little picture of things, bright, familiar, eerie, strange, creepy, and grotesque, like the pictures hang on the walls of a school’s classroom, like the posters of horror movies plastered in subway stations, like the obscene advertisements of pornography. It robs me of my humanity, my womanhood, my dignity, my most cherished aspect of life as a female.
“That’s how it should feel all the time. It should hurt when you walk from being used and abused. Hurry up and push this bastard out of your hole just so we can put another one inside of you again. You should be bred until you are completely barren inside. After that, you should spend the rest of your days caged, collared and leashed, both holes plugged up at all times in chastity belt, waiting to be fucked and used as the fuck toy you were born to be. Hand spank your pussy and clit for me until you squirt tonight, dreaming of my superior half-white baby kicking inside your womb. Breed every nine months slave.”
Instinctively I felt my hand reaching for the forbidden fruit, my face blushing, my heart at my throat, a ghost dancing up and down inside me, clapping its hands and kicking its legs.
Those words magnetized my secret yearnings, waves of forbidden desires surging around me—those words to me were not merely an inaccessible ideal, but an imaginary, enveloping oasis into which I plunged to dream of a life not lived, to escape the anvil of a harsher reality of boredom, death, and loneliness.
For several nights I was unable to sleep, haunted, harrowed, insulted by those words. And the associated images of those words, unreal, fixed, always alike, filled my nights and days, touching my sexual organs as elaborated by the spell of my dreams and not perceived by my other senses at all.
And whenever I woke up in the morning, I felt shameful, guilty, and remorseful, troubled by the reality of those visions that most inflamed my lustful desires, humiliated that those words raised me to a midnight ecstasy, as an imagined reality, more painful than reality—something that I had until then deemed impossible—penetrated deep within my soul, held, restrained, and immobilized me between rocks of amethyst, like a reef in the Indian Ocean, by a supreme muscular effort, in an supreme excess of my strength, diverting me, as if a man sucking the clam-meat out of my clam-shell, leaving me with no purpose, lost in the indescribable and peculiar realm of dreams.
I listened but did not respond. I wished he would have spoken more. But I have never heard him speaking ever again. A few weeks afterward, I remembered those words again, and that night, I dreamed, that the white man who spoke those words put his words into action, came to my house, kidnapped me, and enslaved me, kept me in the condition as he had described. In that dream, I felt myself undergoing a dis-incarnation to a previous life. It was accompanied by a strange and vague desire to vomit, as one feels when one has developed a sore throat, and a persistent fever that had to keep me in bed.
Ever since, I masturbate to those words every night before bed, lusting for his power, his strength, his courage, his madness, his zeal, his tenacity, his superiority.
Love is a disease.