: When did you first begin your bizarre experimentations?
: As a child, I began inserting pages of religious books, piano keys, factory workers, fat rats, and ears of red/blue corn into my vagina. The sensations were the same as father's power tools, but I thought I had damaged myself, so I stopped.
: What happened then?
: Instead, I began using the elongated, protruding breasts of the girls at school. They were twisty and embroidered like an algae factory and continuously branching in an MTV kind of way. I interpreted this as love. So, yeah, the girls were nice to me. But not the boys, who stretched me across ant hills while they sprawled my legs over my head, around my neck, and across the next county, pulling over my outer lips until I looked like fish-face. Also, they made me swallow. We were frequent in what must be communicated as a forced willingness.
: Amazing! Were there any encounters that followed the one you're now quoting?
: For a small second stretched-until-they-sprawled-over-the-outer lips was somehow exciting. Until I started worrying that it would make me into a freak: half boy, half girl. It upset me that I'd never know what it felt like to read books that didn't belong to me, like my aunt's brand new copy of The Story of O. Though I had been labeled a vandal enough to let a baby out someday, my hair was growing rapidly but it seemed to be nothing but a convoluted surface hair.
: What insight if any did you receive from all of these experiments?
: Bad girls have sex.
She flaunted her underarm hair. Maybe people who had sex liked hair. I kept looking at it, to check whether I was disgusted or not. It made me feel I was induced to shave my underarm hair.
: Bad girls have sex? Was there anyone who actually told you that?
: My mother, I think, though I don't know. I learned to draw breasts before I had any, shading them carefully, keeping an eye on all those Adam and Eve bodies and asses. One day I needed something, string or wire or a knife, and I started running home. I had to stop; my breasts hurt with every step. I couldn't run without pressing my forearms to my chest, like this.
At this point she raised her translucent shirt and held her breasts out for my attention. The last thing I remember is going light in the head. When I came to she was gone and so were my pants. I could only imagine that my pants would be joining Wendy City as another stage prop on her tour.
I awoke shipwrecked on an island where the natives were gorgeous sexy bottomless dancing women grooving atop glass cages while an enormous multicolored, silk pajama wearing python cuddled up next to me, speaking in a deep falsetto and making vague gestures toward the women with his pulsating genitals. After listening to him talk for awhile, it was apparent that he was a storehouse of information on social etiquette, types of ballroom dances, and strip club lingo.
Impressive for anyone, but even more impressive for an island ensconced sea-faring cultural python. I immediately vowed eternal allegiance to his wisdom and proclaimed him the messiah.
He smiled briefly in that narrow, slithery, serpentine way that was his signature riff, and presented me with a dizzying array of excellent out-of-print erotica.
"You'll learn some do's and don'ts about pleasing and teasing that your ever-horny girlfriends may not tell you, " he said, arching his eyebrows. "Never too late to throw in some new tricks. You know whitey?"
I nodded, half listening, half eyeballing the luxuriant October spread before me which detailed the exotic and ancient Japanese art of boob prints.