Morsel

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

I eat my raw steak with one hand while I jack off with the other. When I was a kid, I used to get sick from consuming raw meat, mostly chicken, but it hasn’t bothered me in years. I guess I’ve built up a tolerance for it, just like I’m numb to the ridiculously fake sex workers out there.

Now that it’s just me and my meat, I watch computer-generated cartoon videos of a Tyrannosaurus rex eating a naked woman. My dick stays limp. The cartoon is no better than the sex worker, and it’s like the creators used a dinosaur to show me how pathetic I am. You’re not a dinosaur, they say. You’re not even a predator. You’re a pathetic little man who is so desperate for a woman’s touch that you want to eat her.

It’s not like that though. I swear it’s not. I know who I am, and this fascination—eating a woman—has been with me since I was a teenager. I used to try to get off to spanking videos like normal people. It’s not enough though, and I can’t just clap my hands and make this obsession disappear. I have the offal pit and the sex workers to keep me busy. Maybe after Mona, I won’t need the pit or the escorts anymore.

Eventually, I give up and drive about an hour away to a wealthy neighborhood in Sacramento. Lush green lawns—real grass—decorate the properties, a lofty display of wealth. Even if the drought has been over for ages, the state loves clinging to its conservation laws. It’s one of the shitty things about being in a blue state.

I’m not here for the environment though. I’m in California because the women are more open here, more willing to explore. And if I’m right about Mona, I won’t need anyone else. One day, we can move somewhere else together. Maybe Florida.

I park my car around the block, then walk to Mona’s house and let myself into her backyard.

Her house has six rooms, a library, a bar, a massive kitchen, and a formal dining room. Even her backyard is massive, stacked with patio furniture, a spa, a firepit, and a garden. The landscaping is garnished with sculptures that I assume are hers. Being a successful artist means you’re rich, I guess.

Mona, the artist who lives here, posted an anonymous personal ad on a local website with a few faceless nude pictures. I’m tired of not having my needs met, her ad said. I want a man to eat me like a piece of meat. Serious inquiries only.

I had never stumbled on an ad like that before. I’d been hunting for a new escort service that would actually fulfill my needs and send me a sex worker with a brain for once, and instead, I found something better.

Mona Milk.

In the first picture, she’s on her knees, her legs spread wide, her face shadowed inside of a large dog kennel, with chains wrapped around her shoulders and wrists. In another picture, her back is to the camera lens, and a metal collar encircles her neck, and that collar is attached to a bulky chain leash. A distinct tattoo stays visible on her neck: charcoal-like strokes of a snake eating its own tail.

I used reverse-image searching to find a full picture of her. Long black hair. Black eyes, seated in hollow sockets, rimmed with thick black eyeliner. Light pink lips.

That’s when I found out that the little meat hole creates art and is a celebrity icon in the art world. She even teaches at the university. It didn’t take long to find her home address.

All men can eat pussy, but I want to eat your flesh, I replied.

Immediately, she responded: Meet me in the bathroom at the Sway Gallery on Thursday, nine p.m.

I found the woman of my dreams, and she lives close to me. And Thursday is less than twenty-four hours away now.

I’m so lucky.

A figure appears in the master bedroom window. Mona’s naked breasts push against the glass as a man fucks her from behind. My dick spasms. Smashed up like that, she reminds me of ground meat, slung from the styrofoam tray into the frying pan.

If she’s got someone there, I can’t go in tonight.

I find a hiding place in the corner of the garden, behind the giant leaves of an elephant ear plant. I crouch down, keeping myself out of view. I’m not a stalker. A stalker is a threat, and to Mona, I’m merely an admirer. A soon-to-be friend eager to make her acquaintance. Besides, she knows we’re meeting at the gallery soon, and we both want the same thing: a serious connection where one eats the other, even if it is just fantasy. It’s rare to find a shared fetish like ours.

I pull a small plastic bag with a reddish-brown tampon out of my pocket. A pubic hair sticks to the string. I dug it out of her bathroom last week, the night after I found her personal ad. She was going to throw it out anyway. It reeks like a dead animal, the blood sour and putrid. I stuff the whole thing in my mouth, my appetizer, groaning as the cold, metallic blood squishes over my tongue. I pretend it’s a blood popsicle. Between my gnawing teeth and my fierce suckling, soon my mouth is coated in her delicious essence.

There’s a chance Mona will accept me for who I am. Not just pretend like it. Not just appease me so I shut up. There’s a chance Mona Milk is real. A real person who wants to be consumed by me, just as much as I want to consume her.

One day, when I find the right woman and confirm she’s as obsessed and dedicated to sexual cannibalism as I am, I will take her to my fields. I’ll treat her right. She can roam freely, and I’ll be there, raising her to be the best piece of meat anyone can ask for. A steak so good, she can only be truly appreciated if fully consumed. Money can’t buy meat like that.

It’s a daydream though. I would never jeopardize a genuine relationship by becoming a threat.

Mona’s face twists in orgasm, pain and pleasure mixed into one haunting scream. I heard that the French word for orgasm means “little death,” and when you think about it, it’s difficult to tell the difference between a face distorted by orgasm and one wracked with gut-wrenching pain.

Is that the look Mona will give when she dies?

I imagine thrusting into her as I eat a hunk of her breast, and hearing her moan in pain as she bleeds out. I give the cotton popsicle a hard, final suck and savor the last hints of her menstrual blood. A curl of pubic hair hooks onto one of my taste buds, a little hand clawing its way out of my mouth. I instinctively gag, then swallow it down too. I press the plastic bag to my mouth and lick the insides as I pretend her pussy is clenching around me one last time.

My cock bursts.

My cum drips down my palm as I stare up at her bedroom window. Condensation clings to the glass where her breasts were, the heat of her body causing me to salivate again. I exhale slowly, letting my mind coast back into reality. It’s not like I’ll actually eat her, nor will I kill her. I would never hurt someone like that. Our shared interest is unusual, and after years of yearning for someone like her, I can’t ruin it by taking things too far.

It’s only a daydream. A fetish. An idea that makes me come.

I know that.