Excerpt: Conception

From my novel in progress, Hosting Body

Warning: graphic descriptions of mosterfucking

The dumbest question involved here is always, “how did it happen?”

Did you skip sex ed? A stork infected me. When a man and woman love each other very very much…

For all the sex positive empowerment we might be claiming, an unwanted pregnancy is an immediate red A of shame. It’s like your body degrades you of your dignity as people curiously, ogling, ask, “didn’t you use protection?” It’s like suddenly everyone wants to know the details of how you let a man cum inside you.

Nobody judges you for fucking until it leads to its natural consequences.

When women get pregnant on purpose, no one interrogates them on their sex lives. Unless someone else is also trying to get pregnant, no one sheepishly demands to know what position you had which kind of sex in to get to this point. You can’t shame me for fucking, anymore, but you can shame me for being too incompetent and irresponsible to fuck with this body and keep my control. What ignorant dumb girl loses her autonomy to her body in this day and age? After everything the Sixties did for us to be able to fuck without consequence.

I lost control over my own body. What does this mean for women’s empowerment?

It’s like, oh look, look who thought she was big girl enough to have some private sexual fun. Let’s all look at the big girl who couldn’t handle it and find the way that it’s her fault, as we supportively prod for details. It could never happen to us, bigger, more responsible girls. Pick apart this big fat girl who thought she earned herself some fun. Since when did women think they were entitled to fun? Stuff yourself with birth control, girl!

Take a pill everyday and confuse your body out of its natural rhythm. Stick a plastic copper crucifix into your most intimate organ. A rod or a ring or whatever shape you’d like will helpfully pollute your body with overdoses of its own homeostasis. Obsessively track the passing of time with your cycle as your calendar. All things you must do, as a liberated sexual responsible educated woman! Your body is built to be baking a baby and you must battle it at every turn if you want to keep your autonomy. At worst, at least prepared, at least responsible, if you do find yourself fertile, nitrile plastic, latex, silicone will block and/or poison the invaders. That’s on you, too, to protect yourself from. Why didn’t you take the morning after pill, too, for safety, compulsively like a vitamin supplement? A body like yours can never be carefree.

I am young and I am done and I needed to feel that reckless stupidity symptom of my age before I drowned in the responsibility of my work that I felt like three kids in a business suit pretending to be right for.

They’re all for the young being reckless, until the recklessness has consequences.

So since you always wanna know, here it is, in gory detail,

“How did this happen?”

I had sex with a demon. Hey, now, don’t judge me, it happens. They only shame you when you’re lightning struck with the consequences. But you deride me for my bad decisions knowing damn well that, tight and intimate, in the smokey red hot back corner of a bar, when a guy with piercing teeth and bad news eyes offers to split his coal black curls and show you his horns, you’d fucking take the offer.

And so yes! Fuck! Yes! I let him cum inside me. Multiple times. I asked for it, too; practically begged for it. Fuck you. I’m not gonna sit here and quabble and spit some excuse about 97% effectiveness of condoms or missed birth control alarms.

I’m not going to justify myself to you.

I was splat in between two periods, my breasts were plump and I was horny. I’d had a bad fucking day at the end of a bad fucking week at the end of a bad fucking month and so when I thought could have some carefree fun, I fucked the first demon I met.

He, like all the most devilish demons, was smokey in every sense of the word. His breath tasted of a scotch that may well have been infused with the fumes of the flamed of the great library of Alexandria, intertwined with the wisps of perfectly burnt tobacco leaves wrapped with the flavour of the history of human buccaneering, exploitation, and enslavement. His hair, even in the small warm light of the table candle, was a hue of dark peat, speckled with ash pale strands. His skin was the shade of every historical great, and his chin was sharp to match. His nose was the perfect amount of too big, with a crooked bump pronounced about a centimetre down from his thick dark brows that shadowed his eyes. Under his eyes were large patches of darkened skin, that looked equally as likely to be natural as from lack of sleep. His eyes, though, always glinted, with that mischief look of dramatic irony.

There, in that pub, painted in a thousand humble flickering shadows of candles and gas lamps and oil lamps, in a corner booth of heavy dark wooden benches with tall, intricately carved backs, I climbed onto his lap and sealed my fate with a foolish simple kiss. His lips were chilli sweet in the way that they smelled like mom’s flower garden in spring but burned like acid lip balm in a dry winter.

He had already been sitting there when I went in. About nine in the evening on one of summer’s last suns. I’d carried my frothy black beer to the back, aimlessly looking for a place to collapse or maybe some trouble. And he had called out to me. He knew my name, of course, all the demons know everything they need to.

“Ånger.”

I was tired, so fucking tired, and decided I no longer cared enough to have the strength to make good decisions. I slid into the booth, across from him, and gave him my curious, defeated attention.

He grinned, and asked, “what’s your name?”

I rolled my eyes and drank my beer.

He pushed his whiskey towards me. A clay ashtray with three cigar butts was stashed against the wall on the driftwood-texture table. The table had once been as polished and dignified as the rest of the furniture, but had been scraped by countless glasses, stained by countless mishaps, and scratched by countless bored patrons.

He leaned back, and, you know, demons shape themselves after your desires. I saw his eyes recognise something, and—I forgot to mention this, but he was thin as a stick bug when I first saw him—suddenly he had always been that sweet spot of chubby. His body swelled and stretched his shirt to obscenity, pressing to be freed of it. That got more captive attention from me, I’ll admit.

“Be not afraid, or whatever it is those angels say.”

His voice carried such confidence, like he was so sure of everything he said that it felt like a redundant overcaution to actually say it.

Be not afraid, the angels say, because they come looking monstrous to speak to our souls. The first thing you need to do, to be blessed by their guidance, is the quick small enlightenment of overcoming primal phobic reactions with a non-judgemental openness for insight. The demons, with their prickly little tricks to teach us, instead dress up as a daydream deities, and feed us our cake until we choke on it.

Like every opportunity that comes your way when you are young, I took it in the ever dimming naive hope that it might hold some future for me, hesitated by the evermore established knowledge that it really never does.

So, fuck it.

I went along with it.

What should I be feeling?” I asked, mostly for flirtatious purposes. These things are the age of all human existence. It shows a basic self-assurance to be able to keep up wit with them. His grin only grew more excited.

“I think,” he said, as his tail slithered under the table and up my pant leg, “you’re already feeling it.”

The tail, it went up my pant leg, into my panties, and then into me. Whether its me, or demon abilities, or the psychological consequences of demonic upper hand; the seal-breaking forwardness of his tail inside me, right there in that bar, after only a few sentences—he had me in that heartbeat.

These demons, they know all they want to, anyway. He knew my name, he was here for a reason. If he just wanted a fuck, he still seemed to choose me for some reason. He’d waited in the inn I would go to this evening, he called out my name, and he showed me my type. So, I figured, lost in my youth as I was, growing ever disillusioned and disappointed with every guiding star that died out in the distance, which had never really been there and had been always, while I knew them, long dead. I figured, fuck it, he’s got to know something I don’t, with that dramatic irony grin.

The tail pulled out, exited soaked and sopping, left a sticky snail trail down my thigh, down my calf, across the floor, as it retreated. Staring what he knew deep into my eyes, he only smiled harder.

“It’s fine, you know. Us demons, we know the physical of you humans better than you ever will. God and His angels are up there tuning your souls, but we know your bodies. I know how long you dripped discharge that no one explained to you before you finally got your first period, Ånger. I know when you first stuck an electric toothbrush in your pants, the fervour with which you rubbed up against tree branches. I know which of your organs are going to fail first, I can tell you what stage of digestion your lunch is in right now.”

These demons, they have something so disarming about them, despite the danger they’re dripping with.

“There is nothing you can hide from me, Ånger, so there’s nothing you have to. Let go of your soul, let go of your reason, free yourself briefly from rationality and give in. Don’t attempt to enact dictatorship over your body and just live within it for once.”

So I slid off the bench, onto the elevated wood floor of the cubicle under the table and crawled. I dragged my knees against the rough decaying wood, they caught and snagged on rogue nails, grew red marks of rope burn and pressure, and embraced/engulfed every splinter they met. In my knees, in the impact of this real present moment on my knees, I channeled all my metaphysical. The exhaustion and doubt of my life, the pressure I put myself under to prove what I can, the regret and shame of this moment, the freeing relief of for once embracing a bad idea.

And then I arrived at his boots. And I climbed back up again, onto his bench, onto his lap. That’s where I’d tasted that sweet chilli kiss.

Their tongues are split, you know that? It’s all the sensory of being eaten with the dexterity of being fingered. And they’ve got that extra limb, long and phallic-thick.

We didn’t do it there in the bar. That’s not something that you’ll get, to further pass judgement on me for. We didn’t just fuck right there, on the hardwood furniture of a pub, surrounded by people and other mortal creatures, in a seaside town on the extant plane. No,

He took me to his plane. The physical. Purely physical. And what an aphrodisiac.

You know how every orgasm feels? That brief sense of distilled nirvana when, for one moment, your experience of reality, your Wahrnehmung, is exclusively informed by your body’s excited, ecstatic joy of senses. You might find a similar sensation in vomiting up the expired aioli, or giving greedily in to your kitchen cabinets after failing diet starvation, or closing your tired eyes and running your palms and fingers through the soft blanket fur, or the relief of that first deep inhale of cancerous nicotine after attempting to quit cigarettes once again, or a really good bite of a slice of pizza from your favorite place, or the heart-behind-the-body feeling of jumping into the open ocean from a cliff just a little too high up, or that rawest, most primal intimacy of plunging into a pair of lips you keep swearing you’ll never speak to again.

In those moments, in the inverse of what a Buddha does when he sits under a tree and contemplates himself out of hunger and despair or what you do when you forget to sleep for two days while you’re writing your paper, you split the symbiotic duality of the physical-metaphysical mortal existence and accompany only your body, briefly, to the plane of pure physical, buried deep in the core of below, you might know, colloquially, as hell.

This isn’t as sinful or devolved as the Enlightenment and its predecessors and its consequences have got you believing. It’s as much a natural element of human existence as sailing with our souls into the metaphysical of the heavens above, or it wouldn’t happen. If it’s part of what we experience in the dynamic dialectics of our human lives, then it simply just is part of the dynamic dialects of the experience of human life. To assign morality to certain parts of life, and stigma to others, only serves for an incomplete misunderstanding of the point of mortality.

He told me all this while he toured me through his neighbourhood of this physical plane, of this hell.
Aphrodisiac might be an insufficient word to describe it. It’s more like, you know when you were sixteen and almost overdosed on MDMA? When you rubbed your hands up and down against the entrance hall carpet, matted as it was with the crusted dried mud and other such stuff collected over who knows how long from who knows how many soles. And the other party attendees, slightly disgusted and slightly concerned, told you not to do that ‘cause you’ll get you sick. But you ignored their fretting. Stuck your cheek against it and found, in the cracked crumble against your skin and the faint compost smell, near-overwhelming pleasure in the ecosystem of existence, both organic and nonliving.

You let go, for a moment, a fear of physical health threats like germs or dog shit. Let go, for a moment, the pressure of dignified self presentation. And just revelled, rubbed like a pig in the mud, in what this entrance hall rug implied with its presence. The hands who made it out of love or under duress; the stains of people coming home, of people who came to care for the people who come home here, of people coming to harm them; every virus that flew out in a sneeze and died on this mat; the long evolutionary journey all this matter had had over the course of the universe’s history until they were woven together in this floor mat. How it all, everything, in the end, is just a tapestry becoming woven.

That enlightenment you found in drugs and a doormat when you were sixteen? That’s what it feels like to be on the physical plane. If morality control freaks try to scare you with threats of the torture they’ll commit to you down there, let me reassure your nerves. On the walk to his place through his part of his neighbourhood, I witnessed… Well, I witnessed a lot. The environment was noise polluted by the screams and cries of human limitations. They held no alignment, were indistinguishable between pleasure and pain. Such a binary does not exist down there. Down there, it was all the same. Physical sensation had no good or bad, it simply was. And was all around. And was all the end ideal.

The full, completely open, non-judgemental, unconditional (uninhibited/unlimited) embrace of the physical of the human condition.

Even the sting of my scraped up knees and the aching of my evening feet felt like floating on sensual pleasure. Like the heatwave chafe of your sweaty red-rubbed inner thighs transformed into a pleasurable sensual reminder of summertime freedom, as if rub always referred to the same sweet caress.

A woman sat naked and cross legged against the brick facade of some stinking building. She lifted her right boob and, with her left hand, took a scalpel and sliced along the bottom of it. She dug into the cut and pulled out a lobule, tugging at it with a curious gaze. She was weeping. She was smiling manically.

I stared at her a little too long. She looked up at me and we made eye contact.

“I make food!” She called, showing me her lobule, “I make life and I make food! Who the fuck do the men think they are! We’re basically gods!”

The demon just pulled me along and muttered to himself, “Let’s hope that’s not what becomes of you.”

Come to think of it, it was mostly women down there. Who’s to theorise why? Maybe because we spend our lives forced to pretend we’re not physical. Maybe because history has just loved condemning us down there for being physical. Maybe because we’re so brutally physical, so entwined in the bodies we’re meant to put forth like hollow dolls of porcelain. Maybe because a young girl growing a body knows nothing about it but shame, and needs somewhere to take it apart and explore it for once.

One woman was covered in blood. Whose blood? From where? Only God and her neighbours would know. It was brown and dried. She was also naked, caked in it. Except for small clean streaks down the inside of her thighs, where her pale skin showed through.

“I bleed! I fucking bleed!” She screamed out.

Another person, their original form undistinguishable, cut free of denominators and just a biological body, ran at her.

“Yeah, you fucking do!” The person cheered, tackling her to the ground, “we all do! It’s beautiful!”

The woman giggled, then so did her tackler. And soon their tongues were being introduced.

And I could only find it all beautiful. The demon, while I gazed around with childlike curiosity, smacked me on the back of the head and chuckled.

“Oh, Å, what your species deny of themselves.”

I flinched when his satin bedcovers pricked me with a small dose of electricity. He watched my reaction and spoke, while he crawled down to face my crotch.

“The sharp pierce of a needle and the teasing tickle of a feather feel the same; they provide the same value of physical sensation,” he said to the entrance of my vagina, close enough for a ghost touch between lips, his breath crittering between my creases. Then he lifted his head, shot me with a look, and said, “I think you’re forgetting that you’re more than your thoughts. More than your skills. More than what you can serve, in the abstract of hypermodernity, your masters. I think you’re forgetting what it means to be extant.”

I just mumbled, moaned, and nodded, making an aside in my thoughts to the strange nature of demonic dirty talk. I closed my eyes and leant back, into the body.

“You’ve forgotten how to experience the world. You’ve cut yourself off from your senses. You’ve replaced emotions with hard work, contentment with achievement, connection with recognition.”

Then he slapped my inner thigh so I’d look down at him again. His eyes were sharpened and his fingers turned to claws that he dug into my thighs, hole punched until blood trickled down like lube.

“I’m going to reintroduce you to your body. I’m going to put you through the primary primal purpose of your physicality. And remind you, harshly, you dumb scatterbrained bitch, of the pleasure point of living. Until you fucking learn.”

They always give us these omens so willingly, don’t they? The universe, the angels, the demons, and God. And we just shrug them off to get on with whatever superficial life we were leading.

I thought he was talking about the sex. The sex was good. Good is a very inadequate descriptor, but I lack the human vocabulary to express anything of what it felt like better, so I’m not even going to try.

You want the details of how educated responsible dignified young lady me got pregnant? His loads were warm, that’s how, and very large. And as I felt the ecstasy of his first one, I begged him for more, cried for him to fulfil me. Cover me in his numbing cream so I could forget, for just a sec, my empty draining life. For just a minute, let me not have to optimistically rationalise to myself the benefit of every dehumanising and exploitative career advancement, just to survive the ever-present hopeless, destinationless feeling. Let me, for just one fucking fuck, enjoy being alive, instead of convincing myself that one day I will, as an affirmation mantra to stay in my life.

My face, that commercial face with its perfectly-practiced humble smile, made the lewdest expressions of satisfaction as it was rained on with cum. My throat, the throat that spoke publicly so eloquently, gurgled and gagged as it tried its best on his figuratively horse-sized demon cock. My lungs, the lungs that always supplied the voice for those words, choked and sputtered as they struggled to swallow any air.

And when I couldn’t control the gag reflex anymore, threw up, all over him and his dick, he just lifted up my face by my chin, like the hand of Prince Charming, the snot and tears of exertion running freely down my face, and told me I was doing a good job. I was a quick learner and promising student. Like always, I was learning with eager fervour.

He ran a thumb through the bile dribbling out of my mouth down the left of my chin, then brought it to his mouth and licked it clean. Then he told me we were getting there. I was getting the idea. We were getting to the point of pure physical embrace that he needed me at to teach me properly. Then he told me to make him scream, too, and he’d show me what full submission was.

He squealed the way a demon in heat does, when I went around behind him and pierced my jaw into his neck, punched my teeth into his flesh. Millennia of human lust in one shameless confessional moan.

I threw him down into the surface of the bed and climbed up atop. His walls, decorated as they were with torture devices and sex toys alike, had plenty variety of choice of false phallic appendage and applicating belts. I thought, fuck it, when would I get the chance again, and grabbed the largest on option. A literal taxidermied horse cock.

What, are you disgusted? I’m having the best sex, one of the best physical experiences, of my whole life and you’re disgusted. Well I’m illuminated.

He couldn’t see and it came without warning. He yelled, but he didn’t complain; as established, why would he? He laughed into the pillows between moaning breaths.

“Good girl,” he said proudly and I thrust in harder. And maybe I just have parental issues and started projecting, but I felt like there was an impressed proudness in his following yowling.

He snivelled and whimpered to pull on his horns. So I wrapped my hands around them. They had the texture of a dehydrated cat tongue. And I yanked. He writhed and reacted and told me to keep pulling, and I tried for approval, until suddenly it snapped off. I was flung back with the force, and when I looked down, I held half a curled demon horn in my left hand.

He released himself from me and turned onto his back, limbs protectively pulled together like an insect I just pulled a leg off. Tears welled in his eyes and he groaned, wailed with ecstatic agony. He panted ferally for the homeopathic qualities of breathing air.

Confused, with his horn in one hand, I asked, “isn’t that super painful? Aren’t these full of nerves?”

He looked up at me with a look of feverish hunger and nodded, “exactly.”

I climbed out of my penis-envy saddle and threw it over the side of the bed.
He smiled a wise owl smile, “how are you feeling?”

I checked in. My pulse was beating at a frantic primal instinct pace. My heart hadn’t been deployed like this since I was a kid running through the park so quick I thought I might be able to fly. I felt like I could feel every end of the complex system of nerves that ran through my body. I felt like I had never been so present in reality, and it felt like a complete disconnection with the rest of my life. It was like I was realising, in both definitions of the word, what all I was capable of doing and experiencing with this body.

He reached up, took half his horn from me, and held it to his chest.

“No, I know you can’t put it into words. I’ll tell you how you’re feeling. Alive. Å, you should know that everything pleasurable in life requires a sacrifice. Life itself requires a person give up their body for someone else to mutilate and rip apart. The soothing nicotine of cigarette smoke sacrifices the health of the lungs, the liquid liberation of alcohol requires a hangover, staying up to see the sunset involves sleep deprivation. Even a healthy, growing body requires muscles to rip apart before it can heal them stronger.”

He leant himself up on his elbows.

“Å. Sex is no fun without a little pain,”—and here he mentioned that whole thing about feather tickles and needle pricks again and went on a tangent about how sensual lovemaking and rough hate-fucking picked on the same senses or something; I’ll spare you the whole long thing—“and life is no good without any pain, either.”

He got up on his knees, face to face with me, and pressed the sharp end of his left horn into my naked chest, right between my boobs.

“It’s that leftover soda bubble prickling after a slap that reminds you, you have skin.”

The endpoint of the horn was dagger-sharp and pricked a small hole in my sternum’s slight dent. He cast a tender gaze deep into my eyes, bestowed me the most earnest, grandfatherly look, and suddenly I felt like I was fucking a paternal ancestor.

“I hope you’ll see what the point of all this is.”

His voice was so uncharacteristically vulnerable and… humanesque. I was stunned. What a radical shift of the situation’s energy.

Then he stunned me again when he full-force open-palm slapped me across the face so hard I collapsed back on the bed. I began laughing and so did he.

Powerfully, he roared, “yes, my dear Å, you feel it! The soda bubble prickling after a slap! You are going to learn your lesson, yet!”

And then, before I could get up, his tail wrapped around my neck and pinned me to the mattress, buried in a sea of disheveled bedsheets. Without warning, he grabbed both my knees and lifted up my middle like a wheelbarrow. Some deep, guttural, prehistoric cry burst out of me as he thrust in suddenly and unannounced. His dick up my cunt and his tail up my ass.

“Yes!” he cried out, not to me, but aimed his face up to the heavens, “you just fucking see! I’m going to teach this bitch, yet! They’re not all lost, God!”

It went on for as long as a demon can wring a human into a rag doll. After an amount of time I am too subjectively human to measure, something like days compressed into hours, it did end eventually. When he decided that my body had been worn out, truly, to the full extent of its potential.

I was half conscious, half dead. I lay lolling laconically while he tended to my wounds. The disinfectant stung, but, you know, physical sensations and whatnot. He wrapped my wounds and kissed my bruises and hummed a tune I vaguely recognised from early childhood fog. A song I think was sung by someone I trusted while they hurt me. It felt simply innocently nostalgic to me, in that moment, coming from the demon. Then he tucked me in, wrapped me up in his soft sandpaper blanket, and held me.

To compliment the strange demon foreplay talk, his pillow talk as I fell asleep was,

“You silly idiotic girl. Your blessed brutal body gifts you signposts and checkpoints of your health every month in that glorious disgusting extreme of blood and diarrhoea, hormonal volatility and cramping guts. And you dismiss it as nothing more than a frustrating inconvenience to be ignored and overcome with painkillers and heat pads. You foolish fucking Fotze.”

And then I woke up the next morning in my own bed.

I thought it was all that, the sex, that he was talking about. When he said he’d show me my body or whatever. The sex was—once again I’m lacking the human words to describe it. It was fun, more than. Educational enough, I guess.

But I woke up feeling mainly just sore, a little ashamed, and mostly frustrated at not having gotten much sleep. I got up and did my morning skin care routine. It’s less intricate than the one of my evenings. My evening routine includes retinol serum so my morning routing involves slathers of sunscreen. Some say that the 20s have the peak of youthful beauty, but the way I see it, it’s the cursed overlap between leftover teenage acne and encroaching wrinkles of age.

I sat down at my kitchen table and, before I even consumed anything but water and toothpaste, it was time to be reliable and responsible and answer to the world of others. I went through my emails, tackled them one by one, letting each one spike me with its own microdose of anxiety until I nearly OD’d. Somehow I had accumulated eleven of them since I last cleared my inbox last night before the bar. Three of them were spam, two were subscription newsletters (I lived off of those), and six of them demanded something from me; three of them from my boss, three of them from stranger professionals I had the panicable honour of impressing via mastery of this obsolescent remnant of print writing conventions.

I went through my day, fuelled on coffee and sugar-free Red Bulls, trading wrecked nerves for artificial upbeatness. I mused, in the brief minutes of spare thinking time, such as trams and creaky old elevators, the “guidance” the demon had given me. I didn’t really get the lesson, but I thought it was a fun fuck.

I didn’t really get the lesson, but then, I hadn’t really had it yet.

So there you have it. Here you go. That is how it happened. The full true smutty slutty story. No longer need you let your imagination run wild with speculative fantasies of how a clever, sophisticated, gifted young woman ended up with sperm up her cervix. I had sex. Impulsive, irresponsible, hornier-than-porn sex with a demon. Is that what you so eagerly wanted me to admit to?