Message-ID: <26582asstr$970301494@assm.asstr-mirror.org> From: "Sean Farragher" X-Original-Message-ID: MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Priority: 3 (Normal) X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.50.4133.2400 Importance: Normal Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6: Imaginary Murder of Laurie Fallon During a Yankee Game. Date: Sat, 30 Sep 2000 04:11:34 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, dennyw Also From TxM6 Hyperfiction http://www.txm6.com (updated 9/16/00) http://www.txm6.com/enfer (updated 9/17/00) http://www.txm6.com/lcfallon http://www.farragher.com (Poetry updated 9/20/00) TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only. Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher. 1092X The Imaginary Murder of Laurie Fallon Imagined by Henry one drunken night. THE SOAP OPERA MURDER OF LAURIE FALLON --GOD LOVES THE SOAPS-- What a fucken Headline. "Why should I want to watch, a guest, a witness to murder? Voyeur or not, I cannot change the doctrine. When friends, beaten half to death, were captured by a coma." Father Tabby, Letter to CJ Parker, 3/4/1993 about his vision From The Gadfly's Leap Year Record, Wednesday, July 30, 1992, 03:53:07 AM today was 110 days after the abduction of Laurie Fallon Laurie was not murdered on 7/11/92 during the live broadcast of the New York Yankee Game on MSG Cable. It was all a hoax. Perhaps. The Yankees had lost 5 to 3 in 12 innings, the Mariners scoring two winning runs at the top of the twelfth off the losing pitcher Habyan. His loss left him 3-3 on the season. Laurie Fallon took her last breath, first batter, bottom of the 6th, when Mattingly singled to left, rounded first. 3:53 PM exactly. Right. That's me. I'm the other bitch. Not Laurie. I won't die. My sister won't whack me. I'm not the gentle intellectual, high model looking bitch with flowing red hair. No, I'm not easy, am I? How do I know? We all know the players: the Gables was the source. Why did it take the cops so fucken longer. Here I am the youngster again. Always want those ice cream cone tits, and hairless pubis. I shaved then too. Daddy made me. What's the wager, you fuck? pulling off my sweater and jeans, and then falling sideways, legs bent up, slightly parted into dear bed. Need a bath, rushing water. The tub is a social calm. Making the water run over my heart. Feeling the pulse, the tickle, and the swoon, as my digital heart straight home, dark and light, open, a great wing, falling dark, as I pass upward. You bet, driving across the roadway. I pull my breasts up, fake the road soar warrior. I am drifted, as my blood pushes, and I can't string, and then darkness, like the song, the daring gas, as I pursue the feet, and the fall downward. There's the place of song, and then the dress. How is it calm, and then I push up at his chest, watch the curve of his mouth, or the falling pace of his hair, as ephemera, a ghost, dangerous, he comes as I do, sudden, my breasts are cupped and held. Nothing more while I rub myself together and then departs his steel hands, such a warm inside push, and then release. Three months into rehab. Got my squirt of juice, sweet mother fucking orange adieu. Great stuff, sweet water dries on my black scummy tongue. Love the loose talk. Get it, you shit. Feel the rush slowly, grabbing my skin, burning my mouth, letting my swollen breasts leak some darker grime. Most men got this thing for my tits. Had a baby last year. December 4, 1978. I was barely 16, and Matthew Aston Parker propelled from my cunt pissed a great storm. Fuck that shit, getting high off Mother's milk. Guy would suck fifty bucks worth. Up in his high rise. I'd put my head down on his pillow, lift my bra, and he would nurse squeezing his hands open and closed, blinking his eyes. Usually his wife answered the door. She'd put the fifty in my hand, and pat my ass. She's sit in a chair near the bed and talk to me about all kinds of shit, not sex talk. Just shit people talk. Sometimes even politics. Seems her husband would like to run for Congress. Her family has money. When I am done, this asshole fucks his fat ass wife, begs forgiveness, promise never do it again. His wife laughs, and I let myself out. Sometimes three's a crowd, although I told the bitch if I stay and watch, it was an extra fifty, and if I joined in and did her, a hundred. Just watch, she said. I am a smart bitch. No matter how much money I fucked. Everyone did it sometime. Even my bible freak father fucked the eager girls in the church. He got them happy with incarnated Praise yea the Lord while he felt them up, or offered his cock as a sacrament. Standing blowjobs leaning against the wall. I once saw some shit do it to a fourteen year old. A friend of mine. He did it right in the sanctuary. Right before God's eyes. I came to the sanctuary looking for my keys, and there's this sweating shit, dropping his load, banging the child's ass into the wooden stairs near the organ. Pastor, dear father, didn't see me. I didn't stay around long after that. I certainly didn't go to church anymore. My father couldn't explain my absence. Actually, I was jealous of the bitch. Wanted to get even. Show him up. Can't keep your own house in order, so you are a real shit. At sixteen, after the birth of my kid, Matthew, I hit the road; caught a bus to Philadelphia. I was a virgin, truly. Immaculate conception and virgin birth. You can believe that, right, Peter. OK. I fucked around with my younger brother when I was fourteen. I seduced him. -You're still lying, the Gadfly spoke softly and his words were resonating. -Fuck you too, Gadfly, CJ screamed. If I'm a liar, you made me that way. The Gadfly laughed at the absurdity. -Tell the truth, the spirit said. Please, it's important. -OK. I get it. My father fucked me when I was eleven. I had an abortion when I was barely 13. And Matthew's father was my own father. Knew the record would catch up. Can't lie with the Gadfly in the wings. When I was ten and started to get tits, Dad and I didn't do nothing but look at each other. I did suck his cock, got it hard. Far as it spent. Learned fast with my preacher. When I left home, I did waitress work is hard on your legs and feet. I started to feel old. This old shit (must have been at least fifty, older than my dad) came in one day (what a load, Yuck), asked me out. Knew what he wanted young pussy to shake up his old bones one last fucking time. I whispered in his ear. Cost you fifty? He didn't argue, put fifty in my bra, and I gave him the best blowjob of his miserable life. He came in my mouth. I didn't let go. My first trick Scared the fuck. I let go when I through he might have a stroke. His puffy eyes grabbed at my lips. His bulging veins emptied and each pulse, like a tender balloon, could not easily stop. Didn't want anyone to expire. Imagine, under you, humping, sweating like pigs, suddenly, this guy stops breathing. Shouted at the fuck and nothing happens. I tell you; you can't stand there with a finger up your ass and do nothing. I can't call the Police, so left the flea bag motel; other fucker deal with the shit. I am a smarter bitch. Like that make believe street talk, honey. Street savvy woman doesn't stop shit. I'd always sell my ass. Can't stop. Make it easy on me. Please. Don't fuck with my head. Why don't you sell your ass on street for nothing? Think of all the shit you get to suck up. Don't shoot $200.00/a day of shit into her body with a fucken needle when all I wants, beside (even before she got hooked on drugs) is to not depend on anyone else. When I was a child, I would look at how my Ma hung on my father, worshipped him, dependent, when all along he would crawl in bed with all his daughters. Yes, I know I didn't call it dependent then, but I knew how my mother wanted more than taking care of us. Children stop you. I remember thinking how I never wanted any kids. Most of the time I want to be alone. There are times when I really don't like people. Street life can do that to you. All you see are selfish and scared men, who pay for an escape from their prison. He's drunk, away from his wife. Is there freedom in exposing your cock to a stranger, letting yourself go, allowing your feelings to control your actions. It would be wonderful to be with any man who wanted to share my daily life. Someone who knew how to give me space and love at the same time. I want to be with someone not just to take or use. Can I expose and choose my daily boredom. Before I began DETOX and methadone-REHAB, my life was drugs, making my nut, scoring, and then using. There's no choice in such a life. Straight people are tied to a similar cycle. They also have their prisons. But they can dream. There is some possibility for change. A hooker and heroin addict has very little time or energy for any activity outside the cycle of earn, score, use. Drugs have wasted my life. What do I really want, she asks. I want to run four miles a day, and feel like laughter once in awhile. I have a sharp, angular face softened by my mouth that upturns, curves, lifts top lip higher, suggests the invisible quiff, and the tongue behind the key. Striking figure. I possess the convoluted curves, as they softly rise not as a costume or mask. I am the invitation. I do become a mask. Takes on darkness. I lift outside while I bear his prick. Taming a wild beast, inviting, and refusing satisfaction. Yes, there is small risk of rejection by the parts we broadcast everywhere. Amazing how the passage of fantasy and reality climbing the same rose trellis fall down fall down when they are connected by dots and not the riverbed and the lust of Alice in Wonderland. What is the connection of CJ Parker and Laurie Fallon? They are the riverbanks and hell they win runs down the legs of their beaten sex. Henry revives one. God saves the other. Yes, I know. It is not the usual God who hates sex even thought God devised it as a casual explanation for nothing. -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+