Spider
Fuck
by Willie Smith
by Willie Smith
The horniest picture I ever saw was in National Geographics. It was a spider's asshole magnified fifty times. Resembled a soggy Cheerio on a slate background.
I haven't been the same since. Because I wanna do me one, and no live spider is big enough to accommodate. I've tried jacking off on arachnids. Wolf spiders and tarantulas the best. Daddy longlegs impossible. Scorpions a bitch. But I never come near the satisfaction gleaned that afternoon when I first drenched the National Geo full-color centerfold blown up to reveal a teensy parasite wriggling in some jungle spider's 0-ring.
You can't always get what you want. But, if you fixate, sometimes you get what you pay for. Visualize arachnoid roundeye.
One night I was jizzing a black widow -- ejaculating without orgasm, bored with the universe. I turned some jazz on the radio, while watching the spider struggle under the shroud of ejaculate.
Goodman Benny inhaled clarinet. Jack Webb sat in. Max Roach fogged the chamber. They were in mixolydian -- I heard a vodka tonic. Willie "The Lion" Smith masturbated the 88.
I daydreamed anti-aircraft fire. Nazi flak redshifted into what I'd dine upon that night, Turkey Tetrachloride? Veal Hardon Blue? Fish Dicks? Spam Sushi? Only a wizard could decide which tv dinner, when all you got is a radio.
Imagine my lack of preparation, daydreaming as I was, when into the room clacked a spider big as a Buick. Eight pale legs supported a hispid, chartreuse body. She spun around. Hiked her crupper. Displayed a taut caterpillar-green starfish.
Like in a dream, I approached the miracle. The chiton of her legs buckled with anticipation. I ran a finger over the sphincter that was tinier than a dowager's purse. She stood nervous, shy, to all appearances a virgin. She was dry as calculus. I ran to the kitchen for butter.
Wow, I thought, yanking open the fridge, a cherry hallucination! I froze, staring at a bearded carrot, a cube of butter, a plastic liter of Rococo Coke and a stutter of roaches that had wormed in under the door.
The roaches didn't appreciate the light. Several rotated feelers. But none broke ranks. The fridge was too cold, despite crumbling insulation, for them to panic at such a stimulus. The insect at the head of the line lifted a leg at the grate of the middle shelf, whereon lay the carrot abandoned by Bugs Bunny about the time of Hiroshima.
I guess I didn't have any tv dinners afterall. In the back of my head a psychiatrist sniggered; neither was there any mammoth Miss Muffetbuddy out in the parlor.
I couldn't face that. Vision or not, she was real as anything else in America. Slammed the door. Sidled to the sink. Washed my hands. If she was from another planet, perhaps a victim of radiation, I didn't want to contaminate anything. Washed so good I scraped knuckles raw and broke two nails.
She appeared to be garden variety. The type you see in September protecting tomatoes from mosquitoes. Occurred to me maybe she'd like a bite to eat. My mince turned to the vermin inside the refrigerator. Would they be big enough? Sure -- swoop all twenty into my fist. Offer them up like a mouthful of raisins.
A kiss would be sweet. But I was unsure regarding spider lips. So my thoughts dwelled instead on tongue skating her cloaca. I could not think of a prettier, a smoother, of a slicker rink. I'd make it slick -- like a blade slaloming dry ice.
Oh yeah... I dried hands on jeans, yanked back open fridge. Hauled out and unwrapped the cube of Lucerne. Forget the food. Life is uncertain. Best to come first.
I closed my eyes. Said a wordless prayer. Then raised lids cautiously, like a snake charmer or an inmate in a prison movie. I walked back into the combination parlor/boudoir/conservatory. And there in the middle of my dump gleamed -- as I had left her a moment ago -- my eight-limbed goddess.
I worked the butter into the orifice. Just below the anus her spinnerets jutted like quadruple exhaust pipes. They were beige satin to the eye. I one-handed down my pants. Can't afford underwear. Moved my fist, clutching the butter, deep into Rackne's rectum.
I rested my left hand on a spinner. Brushed fingers over fibrous rills close as the milled edge of a proof dime.
I opened the fist. Palmed butter across her inner walls. With my left hand I petted the spigot at the end of her spinner.
Thread the diameter of a chopstick spurted. My hand jumped just in time to avoid the bolt lurched across the room.
Fist in her anus, other hand behind my back, a single thought struck: Spiders eat live meat.
I pinched my left butt cheek. Nope -- not a dream.
There are stories -- from time primeval -- of male spiders getting devoured for their advances. Spiders are loners. They are eager to eat whatever hops, jumps, walks crawls, flies. They are mainly blind. Seem to have no sense of smell or hearing. Brains the scarcity of one angel on the head of half a pin. They perceive the universe almost entirely through touch.
Sure, now and then one gets horny. But the trick -- especially for the smaller, hornier male -- is to coincide your hot pants with those of a babe of the same species. Then to split, before she gets post-coital munchies. Notices you still around.
I inched my eyes over her bulk. Although she stood no higher than my navel, her total body volume was likely five times mine. She was one hunk of an ovoid. Smack up against her rump, I was hunched in the kitchenette doorway. Her front legs and pedipalps abutted the antique radiator on the opposite wall of the room. A distance of well over ten feet.
To her -- once cocooned in thread and envenomed -- I'd be a meal plus maybe a midnight snack. She'd wrap me in sticky thread fast as a winch diesels crab line. Insert fangs through neck. One in the carotid, one in the jugular. Get me coming and going.
I began to think in terms of withdrawing my fist, diving into the kitchen. Cram myself into the cupboard under the sink. I could hole up there for days.
Lick condensation off the drain. Kill the odd rodent. Treat myself to tatar, while Rackne scratched in frustration at the in-opening cupboard door I lay jammed against.
By then perhaps my rent would be overdue, the manager would get cops to force entry, crawl all over the scifi spider with handguns and billyclubs. At least beat her out of the apartment so I could be freed from under the sink.
Then I slapped myself in the cheek. Why hadn't I immediately understood? She had shot a twelve-inch length. If she wanted to get me, she could've spun out a baleful. Nah, she was just moistening at my touch. Those little spigots at the tips of the spinnerets must be mighty sensitive.
Still and all, I removed my fist from her asshole.
She didn't budge. The upper left spinner glowed a little creamier. The anus was glazed and dripping with butter.
My left hand drifted down to my erection. She was gonna be OK. Afterall, this was anal intercourse -- not sex in the reproductive sense. Her organ proper was way up near the underside of the thorax. What we dealt with back here was way up near the underside of the thorax. What we dealt with back here was the eliminative pleasure center, located in that abdominal rumble seat, the pygidium (hope that's correct usage). I studied these terms in books at the library, as well as memorizing the text of that fateful National Geo spread.
I slipped my dick into her butt. My glans entered with the ease of a cop into a bank. The shaft followed quick as a Crash. I was in.
I was in. In the money, in the bag, in the chips, in the sun. In dig go, in diameter, indiana. God -- how could I have been so wrong? Her name was Diana -- Goddess of the Moon, the crossbow, the dyke bike and the little boy with his thumb no bigger than the head of my dick. Little Horner sat in a jack corner, eating his offal and whey out awful shit.
I plummeted to the bosom of her epigastrum. Her bowels clutched. I went plum crazy. Hammered and tonged in a rhythm taking more time than space could express, so I soon had her panting like the Express, take the A-train and alla that crap I soon saw besliming my dick on the out-stroke.
Spider shit is weird. At least with Diana. Color and consistency of 69 degree latte ice-cream streaked with tar.
When it first appeared, made me hornier yet. Then I gobbed a slurp off onto my finger, while I kept fucking. Sniffed. Gagged. Decided (kept fucking) since it stank, I'd better taste it -- to make sure.
When dealing with a hallucination, it often pays to be scientific. Unless you wanna get arrested for throwing a fit in the middle of Macy's.
The taste drew forth legions of sour. A spirited defense was mustered by a contingent from musty closets. Underneath it all lay trampled the sweet serfs, who were slowly, even as I chewed, (kept fucking) being reborn into the ranks of the blessed sluicing salt of the earth.
I hurled -- atop a column of puke, the spider shit back onto my cock. Yeah, I threw up all over her butt. But, I am proud to say, nearly 100% of the actual masticated excrement found its way back into her rectum, where it belonged, via screw action.
I kept fucking. Because this was the dream of a lifetime, and I had earlier on established I was not dreaming. Not even peyote could make me retch like this. Chyme, chyle, gristle, Chicken McNugget boluses, dribbled like contour maps down Diana's buns, over her puckernut, hanging like a horror movie off her four spinnerets.
Then she farted. Now, this was love, and that is not a very lovely word. I mean not love, but... I was as much at fault as she. My humping had no doubt fomented the disturbance. And how much guilt in the loose of no more gas than a child's balloon? It smelled less sharp than ozone.
Again I threw up. I began to get used to it. The fart, not the puke. Even like it. Truly love myself liking it. Such a joy to revel in one's own open-mindedness!
I began to fuck like a dive bomber caught between warring gods of sea and sky. I fucked like Rockefeller pumping oil. I fucked like Mantle hitting a homer down Ruth's throat. Right about then I began to need a blowjob.
Like I said, her mouth was pretty much jammed up against the radiator over on the other side of the room. Also, a spider's buccal orifice is a tight and obscure proposition. Even with Diana's fullblown thousandfold gigantism, I could only expect her mouth to be about the aperture of a nose pierce.
Still, might be solid to dork such a thing.
I imagined myself giving mouth to mouth, to revive her from choking on an accidental drop of pre-ejaculatory fluid. I didn't want to hurt Diana. But how romantic to snatch her from death!
Also get a chance to taste my own juice.
I pulled my dick out of her ass. Hobbled with my jeans around my ankles past her four left legs. Scrunched my hips up against the radiator.
Fortunately it was summer or some damn thing, and the radiator felt by comparison to the passion of my hardon quite cool.
I got my dick out of the radiator. Turned around to confront Diana, whose palps loomed in my face. I reached out. Placed a hand on either hawser-like protuberance. Squeezed gently twice, to communicate love, respect; pinched a third time to indicate there was no way I would ever come in her fac., She reacted by pawing the linoleum with her forelegs. Shyly dipping her thorax.
Spiders don't have much of a face, Like my Aunt Martha useta say: no more features than the assend of a shotgun shell. Don't let me get into Aunt Martha; I mean, bring Aunt Martha up... Mind you, I was a little leery of the fangs -- despite all evidence of her enthrallment with my person.
One thing to remember about spiders: they are powerful suckers. You might even say spiders make their living sucking. Overdeveloped gut muscles create a profound vacuum in the food tube, making of the tiny mouth an inverted jet nozzle. Thus the beast takes up the liquified organs and muscles from inside the body of her pre-digested victim.
Then I discovered, if I twisted -- slightly twisted -- clockwise both her palps, the fangs would spread wide, thus offering a clear shot at her pipette mouth.
I glanced up at her eyes -- a trapezoid of pinholes on the forehead above her fangs. There were between four and eight. I was too excited to count, Vision locked on her vestigial, nearly worthless peepers. I jammed my dick against her kisser. Shaft in fist, I guided by feel my glans over the slick brittle terrain.
My meatus found the rim.
Her fangs trembled. Her palps languished to the floor like limp rope. I thought I saw the sheen in at least two of her eyelets balk.
I moved my feet around in anticipation. Suddenly a whine, like an F-14 Tomcat, turned over, began to warm, filled the room. My pizzle reported to my spine the joy of suck on nerve bundles. Suck grew. Suck multiplied. Suck exponentiated.
I felt my urethra pucker. My prostate tickled what it ate. I began to have balls of helium.
From her upper midmost orb sprang a tear of strain. Over linoleum her claws scritched; losing then regaining grip. The whine keened to a pitch just this side of a dog whistle. She dug in for the kill.
A magnesium spine flared. A brain I useta be cursed with burst. At last my soul was floating that tunnel neardeath experiences.
When the cops beat down the door. I mean, I did come. Or rather ejaculate. I didn't come. The cops came. All I did was shoot the biggest wad since Kennedy's brains hit the trunk. Then yank up trousers. Rediscover zipper, snap, buckle.
I felt like Novocain. I felt like New Age fluff. I felt like a balloon in a universe of pricks. I felt like I got wet for no pleasure. I felt like an unexploded dumdum at the bottom of the sea. I felt like Little Red Riding Hood eyeless in Gaza.
My only mistake was to steal the vacuum cleaners. They never found out about the visquine, the brooms, the glue, the cans of chartreuse Krylon, the nylon cord. For someone so ill-shaven and shabbily attired, I am a very accomplished shoplifter. But both Hoovers simply bulged too much under my Value Village overcoat. Perhaps if I had walked off with one at a time?
One nice thing was that the cops had taken over twenty-four hours to get around to raiding my apartment. Thus giving me time to assemble and enjoy to the brink of orgasm my beloved Diana.
They took me downtown. Threw me in the tank overnight.
This big drunk threatened to rape me. But when I developed spasms of diarrhea and vomiting, he lost interest. I have a knack for doing that, especially when I am around people. Like I say, I'm kind of a loner. Apart from my subscription to National Geo. I have minimal human contact.
Since the vacuum cleaner outlet got their equipment back, they neglected to press charges. Cops claimed none of this would go on my record. I hadn't even been booked. They cautioned not to let the door hit me in the ass on the way out.
I came home to the mere husk of my sweet Rackne, my beloved Diana. My arachnid princess was now a jumble of brooms, a visquine littered floor, blocks of wood, snarls of cord, empty spray cans, deranged coat hangers. At either extreme of the rumpled plastic, holes now gaped. There had lodged the Hoovers -- cleverly suspended with her broomstick legs, and a little dumpster carpentry I did inside the glued visquine of her body.
Turning on the cleaners every hour or so kept her tightly inflated. The artificial straw from the broomheads made excellent body bristles. I chopped oodles of other "straws" into millimeter-high cylinders. These adorned the braided nylon cords that had been her ultra-sensitive pedipalps.
To my disgust I noticed someone -- the cops or the manager -- had carted off her fangs. Her fangs had capped the wizardry of my lusts two shivers of exquisitely broken Budweiser quarts. Some asshole cop right then probably using them to interrogate a helpless sex fiend.
I snapped on the radio -- to find some jazz, to ditch this line of thought. I twisted through rank punk, easy music, country listening, talk spite, talk rage, news outrage, rank talk, easy talk, country talk, buy-this-bullshit talk. In the void of my grief I could find no jazz.
I checked the back of the cordless transistor. Yep -- still no batteries.
I sat down on a flat, floor-level throne of visquine, my head alive with a disagreeable music of voices. I awaited the next coherence.
BROKEN NEWS || CRITIQUES & REVIEWS || CYBER BAG || CYB FI || EC CHAIR
FAREWELL, GREGORY: A POESY BURST FOR CORSO || FICCIONES || THE FOREIGN DESK
GALLERY || LETTERS || POESY || SERIALS || STAGE & SCREEN || ZOUNDS
©1999-2002 Exquisite Corpse - If you experience difficulties with this site, please contact the webmistress.