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From: "Sean Farragher" <sfarragher@nj.rr.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: Taxi Murders the Novel Chapter109   Forced Journal -- Raped at 9
Date: Fri, 21 Feb 2003 16:10:06 -0500
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If you have missed any parts of Taxi Murders
the Novel, they are archived on ASSM -Google
and at my web site. I welcome feedback
in email. sfarragher@nj.rr.com

Chapters 1-110 are available at my site.
Updates will be posted at least weekly.


Thanks,
Sean

http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook

Taxi Murders the Novel -- Chapter 109  Raped at 9
(c) 2003 Sean Farragher
sfarragher@nj.rr.com


http://www.seanfarragher.com
http://www.seanfarragher.com/Joss
http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook




Forced Journal of Laurie Fallon:

Know this. My journal is true. I can't be creative.

If it wasn't, they'd kill me. If I don't write it every day, they will
kill my baby when it is born in June.

Have you ever watched a video tape of an actual murder?
Taped my eyes open the first time. Second time I promised to
to watch without blinking. I cried without apparent tears.
They want sex and cums. I must write it down like I love it or
she beats me. Dare I tell her that spanking turns me on. I have
always loved to be fucked up with restraints.

I have to admit it isn't bad. I am a sick fuck.


First Entry. 30 April?

When I was ten, chased by men with white dark eyes, I submitted. Drawn to
their landscape, they created my body; made it theirs.

No one including my mother protected me from that distortion. No one
expected I'd want more than indistinct pleasure. I loved giving pleasure.
I took it back and felt it concentrate in my fingertips.

Exposed to the electricity of semen I fell down my hair matted, I drooled
like their leaking cocks. I cowered in dream and fact and pretended to
desire what they felt. They only saw how I felt and not what my memory
tarnished as I grew inside that awful guilt passed down.

Handed vibrator and dildo by mother and lovers, I made men, women
and artifacts as tools of compelling perversity.

This is ex-post facto commentary. It is how I see it now in 1992.

When I was a child, there was only the light on the stage; my imagination
made the porno tapes and the crooked, myself included, weak.

They became this new scripture that I crave and create with these journals.
Bullshit always wins when a child plays, but now, no longer the child I
yearn for the wisdom of unanticipated and unplanned play.

I want that spontaneity.

Therapists say I was created and then erased into zero and now I need
to be reconstructed. I disagree.

I am the complex and vital line of my story. Sense the texture of my sex
under your mouth. Imagine faceless men and my mother looming over
my beds. See how they open my hole and I smile with a faraway
glance telling the fucker not to hurt me. He does, and nothing I can do
will stop his one finger from pumping where I am not open.

On night when I was taken, manipulated to satisfy, and to learn that
"no" is not my word, my sexual partners could not reach. They could not
chew or lick. I satisfied myself, but I hid in cardboard boxes and
endlessly
rubbed until the pink skin just shone.

As an act of remorse I spit out the pieces of cocks I suckled semen.
I constructed collages made of unkempt lips and broken teeth. Their
lives, not mine, distorted. I felt sex as a stew when bits of hair, lube
and spit ran down my chin. In the curdling blood eye sunrise raped
as I came, legs buckled and my heart heavy and uncomfortable
frightened me, thinking I was going to die from that fast heart, riding
over the edge, falling down, my cunt opened: red-pink and throbbing
I was a loner as the ache inside subsided. Of course, I am merging
my adult sexual life with these memories. I have to tell them this. It is
the truth. What I actually remember was lightness. I liked it. I would
masturbate for hours without anyone present. I would find my cunt
at the oddest times, as it was open now, I stuffed it with sticks,
vegetables and a Barbie doll. In school, I would push the plastic hands
inside first so it scratched. Talking to teachers I would laugh and close
my eyes and when they asked what's the matter, I told them "My Barbie
dolls missed me. I am a good Mama.

Do not believe any of this. Every one is true. I like the contradiction
of fiction and non-fiction.

I demand to know: what makes pleasure actual? What are reasonable
distinctions?

Given the history of my abuse, why did I feel pleasure? How could I?
Is there a distinction between abuse and cuming?

As I write, why do I pause in the act? Listen to desperate screams.
Have I accepted silences? Yes, I know I must pause to breathe.

Can I be open, reveal everything in the grit of truth? Does confession
protect the innocent as well as the victims? Do I abuse when I
remember it and want it again. I stop myself, but once when I changed
the diaper of my two year old daughter,  I opened her. I did it once,
and she giggled. I can never forget it.

I rationalized. This is Billy's girl. He made me pregnant when I was
18. Mother tells everyone it is hers. When I nursed her that summer
after she was born, I loved it. Mama helped. She got herself started
used a breast pump. When I dried out, she took over and I was
jealous. I stopped doing coke then.

First night out I got laid by this drunk small time rocker. He hardly
came. I sucked him for hours and he did nothing for me. I got to
know his pee hole, and I was so wrecked I imagined that he sucked
me into his balls and when I was there I made him scream while
I tighten my hands around them and ripped them off.

As I thought of my daughter, back home, I  let him shoot me with
shit. I stopped nursing the next day. Mama stopped smoking.

Why couldn't I stay away from fucked up men and getting high?
I realized I was a piece of shit.


2.

At fourteen, I chased boys just to find out where they began and ended.
When I was seventeen I sucked cock for drugs and didn't mind that the scum
running down my beautiful chin sometimes stained my usual white shirt a
darker yellow than the unpainted wall in my room.

Shit, I am 26, but I feel as if I am always 12 watching that shit Billy
jerk off in the shower. Yea, he made me watch. He promised not to fuck me
if I watched him let the "creepy coils," as I thought of them, run down the
back of his hands or -- my hands -- and on to his legs.

Once I told this shrink that when I want to come I have to think of that
fucker Billy for some stupid reason. I also told that mother fucking
money-grubbing quack that I think about dying every day. No, the
"therapist" as Momma called him was not that bad. Shit, he made me laugh
sometimes, and he never came on to me even when I told him that he turned
me on, and I just unrolled my legs and he laughed and said that it would
not happen and that I should get a grip on my life, and that every man in
the world doesn't just want to fuck your ass up. I cried when the psycho
shrink told me that lie. I cried when I told him how Mama let Billy fuck
me. She didn't care that I hated him, and that I only did it so she would
not cry and whine how Billy paid the bills, and saying over and over again
what Mama needed.

I went along and strange as it seems it got better, and Billy got some
great drugs, and Mama slept all the time, and in a few years, I was the
Mama with Billy, and I didn't mind when he pimped my ass or photographed me
sucking cock or jerking off on what he called a mother humping candid
camera. I even became friends with Billy. I did.

Years Later, Billy got arrested for stealing cars and got sent up to State
Prison, I was the only one who visited him. Seems odd that I cared doesn't
it. How did I become the mother to the man? I was seventeen and he was
forty and we just didn't understand the world, and really at the end of it,
when Mama was sent to the nut house, and Billy and I lived together, it was
almost Ok. Was I happy, really, but no, at least I could watch life and
feel myself grow older and shit I never believed anyone was happy. I am
afraid of being happy. I do not want it all. I want to feel like what I do
matters, but does it?


3.

Last year, when I took that class at Columbia I felt almost alive. I
remember the professor asked us to write about fear as it applies to
suffering in Crime and Punishment. Yea, I am a smart girl. Bet you thought
all I knew was how to suck cock or smoke rock. No, I know things. I wrote
that I fear being happy. "When you are happy, your life is over. There can
be nothing more. Happiness twists inside out when you know it. Happiness
becomes terror. It is easier to enjoy pain than to wonder when the pleasure
will end."


4.

Have I been honest here? Have I?

Yeah, I fear the words I write here. I fear the temptation to love. If I
love perhaps fear and pain, love and pleasure will find their more ordinary
balances, and what will I have then. Fucking nothing. On other days,
sometimes, and this is why life is worth it, I love the quiet as I write
down one word by another phrase. I cut those words into my skin like
cutting lard with flour to make pastry. Yea, I like to taste that
fluttering cake, almost as much as a kiss that is tender and a surprise.
How I love to be tender? So little. Too late the tender connection that
breaks my soul into its parts, and when I look at myself under the glass, I
feel myself unravel. I love it. I fear that breaking up, like the end of
sex when the cock slips out, and I try to hold it in with all the cum
leaking down the inside of my legs wetting the bed, making it almost foul
with a bad memory when I turn over and he pushes me there, in his sleep,
and I cannot move. I usually kick the guy then, and he moves, but the
moment is gone, and I wonder why I did anything at all.

Yes, I fear pleasure. I fear the pain that runs up my leg or under my
breasts or inside my mouth. I hate that sickening pleasure; yet I
anticipate and ache for it. I should never have known it.

Mama should never have let Billy teach it when I was ten. As he did, I made
it into pain. Perhaps we all do. Maybe all life is that road of fucken
bullshit we connect as dots to make into our imaginary worlds.

Yes, when I come in that dream, when I connect to my pure child like body,
when I am whole again, I am the girl again laughing with my chums at the
candy store. We are just talking about boys as if they were future tense
ghosts that someday could unfold from the air or drip from the ceiling into
our actual arms.














More Taxi Murders the Novel at http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook












END

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