I love the smell of burning incense. My current scent of choice is opium, and even though it smells nothing like true opium, the smoky scent nevertheless entices me. It invokes pictures in my mind and makes me wish I were somewhere else. Sitting in my bedroom at 3 a.m., staring into the dark, letting myself be swallowed whole and digested alive by a cloud of incense and the beauty of a music no sane person attempts to understand, I can create a setting for my dreams and nightmares, existances I can only hope to one day be a part of. As of this moment my dreams include him and myself in bed, engaging in whatever sick, twisted performances I know our minds can conjure.

I can still taste his come in my mouth. It would be so easy to lie here for hours, remembering how his milky semen felt sliding down my throat, seeping into my tissues, warming the inside of my ches and belly the way a shot of Wild Turkey or Jack Daniels does. If I had stayed another fifteen minutes, his mouth would now taste sour and slightly salty. If I had stayed another hour, I would have ended up naked in a swimming pool instead of naked in a bed wishing I wasn't alone.

I was in love with him once. Perhaps I still am; I don't think it matters. I met him at school, and worshiped him from the beginning. I can still remember the conversations, our soft-core phone sex, my desire for him burning hotter than the numberous candles I kept lit in my room. His intelligence and imagination exceeded anyone I knew, constantly challenging me to question and analyze anything that came my way. A year later, what's left of our friendship/relationship is nowhere near as wonderful, but it does have it's perks, no matter how we feel about each other. This has no emotional attachment, no real commitment. This is a physical thing I welcome when I think no one else is paying attention, a sin I commit when I think no one else cares. My best friend tells me I shouldn't give in, and I agree with him. But that doesn't stop me. I know the reason my friend protests is because he is in love with me and is jealous, but that doesn't stop me, either. I'm not his, or anyone else's, so I do what I know I shouldnt': I give in, allow him to run his hands and tongue over me and in me, to explore me any way he wishes, enjoying myself in the process. Sometimes I wonder if I give in to him just to piss my friend off, to make him even more jealous than he already is. Maybe I give in just to prevent myself from running out of dream material.

Sometimes, to make myself stop thinking of him, I lay in bed and stare at my walls, wondering who painted them. They are full of beautiful renditions of old fairy tales in all of their original illicit glory: the witch eating Hansel and Gretel, the prince raping his lost Sleeping Beauty. When we first moved here my mother decided they were "pornographic and unappropriate" for a seventeen year old girl and wanted to paint over them. When I pointed out how hard it would be to paint over the various blacks, reds, purples, and blues, she tried to make me paint over them myself. After she found my sketch book, however, she gave up on trying to keep "pornographic material" away from me and let me keep them. I believe she was so horrified to see what spent my time sketching that my walls didn't really impact her that much. In addition to numerous "disturbing" pictures of my view on life, it's full of my own renditions of the fairy tales that cover my walls, but with obvious variations. I am always the "heroine", and he is always the "hero".

I lean over and grab my sketchbook and pencils off of the table next to my bed. My hand next searches under my bed, locating a black wooden box. I lean back against my numerous pillows and open it. Inside is where I keep my razor blades, my candles, my matches, my lighters, my incense, and my cigarettes, a pack each of the multi-colored, gold-filtered Fantasia's and the black, gold-filtered clove Extra's. I pull out a Fantasia and a candle, light them both, and take out a razor blade as well. I close the box and lay it next to me on the bed, and place the candle in the holder on the table next to me. Fantasia pressed between my lips, I open the sketch book and start drawing. It turns into a pencil sketch of my lover, the one I wish I was with right now. I leave his blond hair in graphite, loose and flowing; the way I like it, not the way he wears it. I shade his eyes blue, dark in some places, light in others, giving them the light of itnelligence I love so much about him. His lips are nothing but an outline at the moment, for this is where my razor comes in. I trace an old scar across the palm of my left hand, let the blood well up, and then dip the tip of my pencil in it. This I use to finish my picture, to draw his lips, shading them to look just like they had when I'd left him: full, hungry, ready to ravage someone. The blood lends them a red tint I couldn't have added with my pencils alone. No pencil I've ever seen is the right shade, and my blood does the job nicely. I lick the remaining blood away and wrap my hand with a scrap of silk in order to prevent smearing blood all over my clothes and sheets. The finished drawing is not a good as I would have liked it, but it will make a nice addition to my collection. I watch the way the candle light plays with my shading and gives the picture depth and realism. I can almost believe he's watching me. Yes, this will fit perfectly with the others, another version of the way I perceive him. I look at the picture again and decide it's better than I originally thought. I wonder what he is doing at the moment, wishing I was with him. I look at the clock. It is nearly four, and I'm beginning to become thirsty. Cigarette in hand, I tiptoe out of my room and into the kitchen. I pull a half-full bottle of Coke out of the refrigerator and a bottle of vodka from the pantry. I add vodka to the Coke; I now have a full bottle. I put the alcohol away, and tiptoe back to my room.

After crawling into bed, I decide I'd much rather try another picture than sleep. I flip open my sketch book and start again. This time it's a full body, naked and glorious. I work furiously, not paing attention to exactly what I draw, just how I draw it. I color, shade, and add blood. Finally I pull away, realizing I'm done. I look at the picture, taking in each detail I've drawn.

This picture is much different from the first one. The quality is much better, as is the subject content; the first was a clean look at his face, while this is much more drastic. I look at the handcuffs chaining his hands and feet to the floor, the bright red welts the whip laying next to him has made, the blood on the floor from where the torturer has gone too far. I stare at the body on the page, and can almost see it squirming in pain and agony. The face is obviously begging for mercy, mercy that the torturer is not willing to give.

I lay back on my pillows, trying to catch my breath. I feel my insides slowly dissovle, slowly getting wet. I begin touching myself, watching my picture, seeing it move like a motion picture. I see myself torture him, kill him slowly, enjoying myself. I can hear his last scream of horror in my ears as I orgasm, collapsing on the bed. I attempt to calm my breathing, and decide I am tired. I put my sketch book and pencils away, light another stick of incense, and blow out my candle. Exausted, I close my eyes, hoping I'll dream.

1997